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ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 
AND 

TEN OTHER STORIES 







« 








ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 

U AND 

TEN OTHER STORIES 


JULIAN HAWTHORNE 
COUNT LEO TOLSTOY 
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 
FLORENCE M. KINGSLEY 
AND OTHERS 


IFllustrateO 


FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

1899 


















TZi 

trftf 


Copyright, 1899, 

By 

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 
Registered at Stationers’ Hall, London 
[Printedin the United States] 

TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 



FIRST COPY, 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 






ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES, 

By Julian Hawthorne. 

FRANCISCO,. 

By Wolcott Le Clear Beard. 

THE TAPER,. 

By Count Leo Tolstoy. 

HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED THE BLACK ABB& 
By Charles G. D. Roberts. 

JOHN MERRILL S EXPERIMENT IN PALMIS¬ 
TRY, . 

By Florence M. Kingsley. 

V THE STRANGE CASE OF ESTHER ATKINS, 
By Mrs. L. E. L. Hardenbrook. 

JACOB CITY,. 

By A. Stewart Clarke. 

SELMA THE SOPRANO, .... 

By Mabel Wagnails. 

AT THE END OF HIS ROPE, 

By Florence M. Kingsley. 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES, 

By Mary C. Francis. 

ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF AND A FIRE 

ESCAPE,. 

By Myrta L. A vary. 


PAGE 

, 9 

, 29 

. 77 

. 93 

. 115 

. 131 

. 161 

. 177 

. 247 

. 275 

. 299 








LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“Talking with us, he would break off to speak 

to Mercy,”. Frontispiece 

“A lovely girl she turned out to be,” . Facing page 25 


“ ‘Mercy Holland,’ said he,” “ 

By Florence Carlyle. 

“He requested three days’ leave of ab¬ 
sence,” .“ 

“Francisco and Borinquen were coming 

up as prisoners,” “ 

By Charles Johnson Post. 

The council fire, .....“ 

“Her fingers were very soft and cool,” . “ 

By E. W. Deming. 

“ ‘Who is dead? ’ she asked,” “ 

“She seemed to dissolve into the twilight,” “ 
By J. R. Connor. 

“Wheeling suddenly, he fires point-blank,” “ 

By Charles Johnson Post. 

“The moonlight fell on white lips and 

drooping eyes,” “ 


“ 28 

« 43 

“ 52 

“ 95 

“ 111 

“ 136 

“ 154 

“ 175 

“ 206 


7 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


A strange group, . 

. Facing page 212 

“Selma fell, limp and artistically,” 

“ « 238 

“The contrabassist and drummer 
watching,” . 

By Freeland A. Carter. 

were 

“ “ 244 

Following the spool, 

. Page 258 

The problem,. 

“ 262 

A fire at last,. 

By C. H. Warren. 

. Facing page 271 


“In front walked little Pepita Bencoma,” “ “ 284 

By Freeland A. Carter. 


8 


One 

of Those 
Coincidences 

By 

Julian 

Hawthorne 

Illustrations 

By 

Florence 

Carlyle 






































ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


There is more fact than fancy in the following 
narrative. 

Tom Forrest (let us call him) enlisted in the 
volunteers for the Cuban war. A full-throated, 
broad-shouldered, strong-limbed young fellow he 
was, with a frank, manly face and independent 
bearing. He had been brought up on a farm, was 
an open-air athlete, and was never ill in his twenty- 
three years of life. Clean was he in life, language, 
and person, jolly, liked by all. He spoke truth 
by instinct, could row a boat or sail it, hit out from 
the shoulder, plow a field and plant it, dance the 
heart out of or into a pretty girl, sleep nine hours 
off the reel, and eat enough for two men. He 
laughed contagiously. He dressed well when he 
did dress, but preferred knickerbockers and a 
sweater. The grip of his big warm hand told 
you that a man had hold of you—hearty, loyal, 
and guileless as a Newfoundland dog. He was 
intelligent, but no sage; and despite a sponta¬ 
neous morality, fruit of a well-balanced organi- 
11 



ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


zation, he had no religious convictions—to his 
mother’s and sisters’ anxiety. For tho free from 
bad habits, he was insatiably social, and, with¬ 
out a Divine star to guide him, might, it was 
feared, go astray. But his material environment 
had always been so bounteous that talk about sal¬ 
vation and conviction of sin could not seriously af¬ 
fect him. He was sorry to hurt your feelings in 
this or any other matter, but—“I guess,” he re¬ 
marked to me one day, “there’s a God, all right; 
but I can’t get this Christian racket through me. 
It doesn’t fetch me, you know,” he added, as if 
comparing religious faith with a blow on the point 
of the jaw. “ And unless things come from inside 
a fellow,” he continued profoundly, “it doesn’t 
connect. I’m awfully sorry mother feels as she 
does, but she wouldn’t want me to lie to her; and 
there you are! ” So, at church (where he went 
cheerfully), instead of yawning outright, he but 
expanded his nostrils; and that exercise in self- 
control was all the apparent good the service did 
him. For my own part, remembering what a boy 
he still was, I had hopes. Life sometimes reveals 
to us secrets we fail to explain to one another. 

To Cuba he went, followed by devout prayers, 
and looking well with his uniform and rifle, his 
springy step and herculean shoulders. His letters 
home were brief but comfortable; he liked camp- 
life, but was hungry both for victuals and fighting. 

12 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


Tropic heats troubled not one whose blood was un¬ 
inflamed with alcohol, and who was used to tossing 
hay in broiling northern suns. After the regiment 
left Tampa we heard from him but once or twice; 
after the landing and the fighting before El Caney 
there was a silence which soon became ominous. 

At length came a letter from one who had taken 
part in the San Juan charge. 

“You should have seen Tom going up that hill,” 
ran the postscript. “He was great! At the top, 
the Englishman, Arthur Lee, asked him, ‘ What 
the deuce are you exposing yourself like that for ? 9 
1 Oh, I’m just drawing the Spanish fire! ’ said Tom; 
and with that he was hit. It wasn’t fatal, but he 
got dysentery and fever later, and I lost sight of 
him. Hope he’s all right; but there’s no telling! ” 
This was hard news. I pass over the heart¬ 
breaking suspense and dread; many of us felt the 
like that summer. I bore a good face to the poor 
mother and sisters, but the odds were against him. 

We were all down at Easthampton for the sum¬ 
mer ; when the transports began to arrive, we often 
drove over the twenty miles to see the boys in their 
tents. The day Tom’s regiment—or such part of 
it as could be crammed into the filthy steamer— 
was due, I was at the landing with my camera. I 
didn’t dare tell myself I expected Tom, but there 
was a chance. As the haggard men scrambled up 
the slope, I snapped off one characteristic bit after 
13 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


another: a poor fellow, far gone, on a stretcher: a 
volunteer officer, plump and rosy and hectoring; 
a gaunt skeleton, with bony face half covered with 
a straggling black beard, eyes sunken and staring 
and gleaming with fever. I got a good portrait of 
this chap before recognizing that he was Tom! 

I stepped up. “Hullo, boy! Glad to see you; 
we were beginning to fear-” 

As our eyes met, he halted; his rifle dropped to 
the ground from his skeleton hands; he made a 
ghastly attempt to smile, and a husky noise came 
from his throat. His knees shook, he tilted for¬ 
ward and back, and collapsed. I caught him, feel¬ 
ing only bones in my arms; I laid him down gently; 
he was unconscious and, I thought, dead. 

“'None of that, now ! 99 came the harsh voice of 
the plump officer. “ No shamming! Get up, you 
loafer—you’re all right! ” And he kicked him in 
the ribs. 

God will perhaps forgive me for what passed 
through my mind at that moment, the rather since 
I kept the words back from regard for Tom’ s inter¬ 
est. The officer has since been tried for cowardice 
in the face of the enemy, convicted, and drummed 
out of service. I gave him my card and asked for 
a furlough. Up came a surgeon—and to be brief, 
I was allowed to put Tom in my carriage and drive 
him to the general hospital to be seen by the sur¬ 
geon-in-chief. He gave him a thirty-day furlough 
14 




ONE OF THuSE COINCIDENCES 


On the drive home, Tom recovered consciousness, 
and told me, in broken sentences, several terrible 
and touching things; but the many things credit¬ 
able to his courage and devotion I learned not from 
him, but from others, later. He fainted twice on 
the way; he shivered in the fresh sea air; all his 
clothing was a ragged nndervest and an old linen 
tunic much too small for him; I wrapped him in 
the carriage blanket. At the door of his mother's 
cottage I lifted him oat, and up the steps; just as 
the women rushed to the door he fainted again. 
Ah what a meeting! I went across the street to 
call old Dr. James, who had known him from 
childhood. u You were just in time; twelve hours 
more and he’d have been dead; would die any 
way, but he has a constitution like a—politician! 77 
quoth the old gentleman, after the examination. 
u Fevers, dysentery, and starvation on top of all, 
with the Mauser bullet-hole through his shoulder ! 77 
The doctor then made remarks reflecting on the 
powers that be, which, tho very quotable, I won't 
quote. Said I: 

“ Will he pull through? r 

“Well see ! 71 grunted the doctor behind his 
gray moustache; and turned away. 

People may hold what opinions on religious sub¬ 
jects they please. there could be but one opinion as 
to the way Tom’s mother and sisters nursed hi m. 
Dr. Janies did all possible in the way of the phar- 
15 



ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


macopoeia and regimen; but the tenderness, sleep¬ 
less vigilance, firmness, faith, and love of those 
three women were more angelic than mortal; and 
thousands of women all over America were doing 
the same thing. Tom was much too ill to know 
it; he was difficult, contrary, persuaded that he 
was abused, and most of the time was delirious. 
He thought us all in league to maltreat and destroy 
him; he said he would get well at once if we would 
but let him have his own way. He accused the 
doctor of murderous crimes, and quoted amazing 
orders from some source unnamed which were ur¬ 
gent, and indispensable to his recovery. He pushed 
away his gruel, and declared he had just got up 
from table at Delmonico’s; was convinced his med¬ 
icines were subtle poisons; bade the poor women 
“ cut his throat and done with it, if they wanted 
him dead ”; and mingling with this were agonies 
of dread lest “ they ”—meaning the War Depart¬ 
ment—would kidnap him, set him on guard duty, 
try him by court-martial, and force him to bury 
his dead comrades under a hail of Spanish bullets. 
Often he thought himself dead, and protested 
against burying his body in a Cuban rifle-pit. All 
this and much more of the kind was commonplace 
enough; how many families are there, up and 
down this country, who have heard and seen the 
boys they love best going through the same? 

Commonplace, too, however thrilling, were the 
1G 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


ravings of his delirium. Frightful pictures reek¬ 
ing from the battle-field and the subsequent hor¬ 
rors rose in his mind and painted themselves here 
—there—as his trembling finger and starting eye¬ 
balls indicated; then with a shrill groan he would 
bury his wasted face in the bed-clothes and gurgle 
out piteous entreaties. As one contemplated this 
spectacle week after week, one gradually realized 
through what a valley of torture and outrage and 
death this boy (who looked sixty, and next thing to 
a corpse) must have passed to bring his masculine 
vigor and kindly serenity to this extremity. He 
resembled our clear-eyed, ruddy Tom about as much 
as if he had been an Aztec mummy in convulsions. 
But I allude to it only to introduce another feature 
that was, I think, less ordinary. 

For midway through his illness a new character 
came on the scene; to be accurate, she was seen by 
none save Tom himself. Miss Holland, he called 
her; then, as they grew intimate, Mercy. Mercy 
Holland became for him the chief person in the 
house, if not in the world. He was full of her 
sayings and doings, ideas and counsels; but he 
never described her appearance to us, because he 
thought we saw her as well as he did. He deemed 
her natural and inevitable; she could not have been 
other or elsewhere than she was. Talking with 
us, he would break off to speak to Mercy; would 
smile to her at any amusing or surprising thing; 

2 17 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


would have her called—she had gone upstairs, it 
seemed; would insist that she, no one else, should 
minister to him. She was more real than what we 
called real persons, to him; we were shadows in 
his dream and she the fact. As he lay alone, we 
heard his murmuring talk with her through the 
half-open door. “ Where’s that list of things she 
made for me? ” he asked. He thrust his hand in 
his breast, seemed to find it, and held it out to his 
sister. “But where is it, dear?” she asked. He 
stared at his empty fingers. “ Extraordinary! ” he 
muttered; “ it disappeared right while I was look¬ 
ing at it! ” 

In short, this vision, phantom, spirit, or what¬ 
ever she was, became so familiar and recognized a 
denizen of the house that we ourselves half believed 
that she was a reality, and we got to inquiring 
after her, not from Tom only, but of one another. 
It may be recorded to the lasting honor of the 
three ladies that they evinced no jealoasy of 
Mercy, tho they were never in the right (with 
Tom) and she always was. He was indignant 
that they ignored her, replied not when she ad¬ 
dressed them; the poor souls tried their best to 
amend, but how could they converse animatedly 
with empty air? But for one reason at least they 
blessed Mercy: from the start she had immense 
influence over Tom in religious matters. 

Illness had stripped his nature of winning traits 
18 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


as it had his body of flesh and health. Surly, 
cantankerous, suspicious, abominably selfish he 
was. Alas! how much we owe to sound digestion 
and lively circulation of the blood! The trained 
athlete sees no need of being born again; but when 
he rubs elbows with death, his friends at least 
admit that it would be a good thing. Now Mercy 
did succeed at last in mending the rents in Tom’s 
temper to some extent. And—“ I never got hold 
of religion before,” he told me with immense ear¬ 
nestness; “ but Mercy explains it—I’m never tired 
listening to her. It’s glorious—so simple and 
beautiful! No one but Mercy knows what a di¬ 
vine thing it is; but she never speaks of it except 
when we’re alone. All these years I’ve been a 
soulless beast, when I might have been helping 
people to heaven! Just her voice makes a fellow 
ashamed not to be good: low and sweet—it goes 
ringing through you like a lovely bell! I guess she’s 
an angel, sent back here to save the world. Thank 
the Lord, she came to me before it was too late! ” 
He often rhapsodized thus, with impressive con¬ 
viction even to a man of the world like me. His 
mother and sisters were fully convinced that an 
angel did indeed commune with him, and was 
bringing him to Christ. They rejoiced, yet with 
fear, lest she might take him with her at last to 
the heaven whence she came. “ It’s only a crazy 
boy’s imagination, ” said I; and they were divided 
19 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


between resentment at my agnosticism and a secret 
hope I might be right. I was tempted to ask, 
“ Would you rather Tom lived unspiritual, or died 
converted?” but not being actively diabolic, I re¬ 
frained. Besides, “I don’t feel safe about him 
while that Mercy Holland nonsense keeps on,” Dr. 
James had once remarked, mounting his wheel at 
the door. 

But Tom improved inch by inch; one day a bar¬ 
ber shaved him; his flesh began to appear; he sat 
up: walked to a chair: got downstairs (memorable 
day!). His eyes were still unnaturally big, with 
sometimes a queer roll and shine to them; but he 
discriminated better between dream-scenery and 
concrete things; and when, one day, he positively 
set up a thin cachinnation, the village heard the 
news. His temper improved pari passu, and day 
by day years seemed to drop from his age, till he 
got back once more to his twenties. Meanwhile, 
what of Mercy? 

Imperceptibly she faded away. I watched her 
disappearance with deep interest. One day, enter¬ 
ing Tom’s room, I found him searching his pockets 
with great diligence and increasing anxiety; and 
as he looked up at me, I saw tears standing in his 
eyes; for he was still ridiculously weak. 

“I’ve mislaid my crystal,” said he, in reply to 
my question. “I couldn’t bear to lose it—I 
couldn’t bear it! ” 


20 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 

“ Your crystal? What crystal? ” 

“ Why, that one Mercy gave me. I always wear 
it with a string round my neck, so I can feel it 
against my heart. It’s oval, about the size of a 
hazelnut, with a gold rim round it, and inside was 
a tiny curl of her baby hair; her hair is dark now, 
of course, but when she was a baby it was golden. 
By Jove! I’d rather lose anything than that crys¬ 
tal: she gave it me herself—she took it off her 
neck and-” 

His strained voice quavered and broke; there 
sat the once strong man, sobbing and crying! 

“My dear boy,” said I, as kindly as I could, 
sitting down by him and meeting his eyes, “ dreams 
sometimes come true; but anyhow, Mercy Holland 
was a dream. The waking world is not always as 
pleasant as dreamland; but you live in it, and you 
must awake! ” 

He stared at me with naive perplexity. “ May¬ 
be she was a dream; yes, I guess she must have 
been, ” he said at last. “ But the crystal was real, 
for she gave it me with her own hands, and I 
promised her always to wear it; why, I’ve—I’ve 
kissed it a hundred times! You don’t mean to 
tell me my crystal doesn’t exist, do you? ” His 
voice went up to a half-angry, half-frightened 
shrillness. “As well say I don’t exist myself! ” 

“ The crystal must be all right, of course, ” said 
I comfortably. “Think it all over quietly, and 
21 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


you’ll remember what you did with it. Solid 
crystals don’t vanish into thin air, tho the girls 
of dreamland do. Meanwhile, Tom, I have news 
for you. Dr. James says you are to have beef¬ 
steak for dinner to-day! ” In this manner did I 
guilefully woo him from the transcendental to the 
material; for man has a stomach as well as a soul, 
and the former is sometimes not incapable of doing 
the latter a good turn. 

It occurred to me, too, that the boy might have 
got hold of a crystal somehow, and then have im¬ 
agined that Mercy gave it to him; but for this hy¬ 
pothesis I found, upon inquiry, no basis whatever. 
The women knew, of course, what poor Tom had 
on him; and they all affirmed that no such thing 
as the crystal he described, or anything resem¬ 
bling it, had ever been seen. Tom said no more 
about it to me; but I learned that, during the next 
few days, he secretly and separately appealed to 
each of his faithful nurses for information about 
it, and evinced the most acute distress, approach¬ 
ing despair, at their failure to give him news of it. 
I am not sure that he ever did entirely recover 
from that particular delusion; and, as you will 
presently see—but I won’t anticipate. 

Mercy, I say, disappeared gradually; he evi¬ 
dently saw less and less of her, and was adjusting 
himself to the difficult idea that she may have 
been an hallucination from the first. If he started 
22 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


to mention her, he would check himself with a 
silly smile. Finally he reached the point of bra¬ 
zenly ridiculing himself for ever having believed 
in her. And yet I fancy that deep down in his 
soul he still believed that somehow she was a truth; 
that the mere fact of her having no substantial ex¬ 
istence did not altogether dispose of her. The sit¬ 
uation was not lacking in a certain pathos. Mean¬ 
while, coincidently with her evanishment, there 
was a cessation of religious conversation on his 
part. He never volunteered any remarks in that 
direction, and suggestions on the subject met with 
no response from him. Had his faith in salvation 
been destroyed along with his faith in Mercy’s re¬ 
ality? It did look a little that way, and his fam¬ 
ily confessed their anxiety; but I told them that 
he was probably only a bit shy of discussing the 
topic so nearly allied with his delirious vagaries. 
When he was quite well we should find that his 
spiritual enlightenment persisted. Providence has 
its own mysterious ways of touching our hearts. 
The good ladies tried to agree with me; but Tom’s 
reticence continued long after he had taken his 
first bicycle ride, and was accounted cured. 

Summer over, we all moved in town, and opened 
the regular fall and winter campaign. I ran across 
an old friend, Judge Horne, whom I had hardly 
seen in twenty years. He was one of those lawyers 
who get $50,000 for a retaining-fee. His name 
23 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


was mentioned in connection with the ambassador¬ 
ship to England; but he preferred New York. 
And “ I don’t want Mollie marrying any British 
peer, either,” he remarked. 

“ I have never had the pleasure of meeting Miss 
Horne, ” said I. “ It seems strange, Bob, to think 
of you with a marriageable daughter! Labuntur 
anni ! Posthume , Posthume ! ” 

“She’s not my own daughter,” replied the 
judge. “ When my dear wife died, twelve years 
back, I was left a widower and childless. Mollie 
(as I call her) is the child of one of my clients, who 
came to grief. She’s been the angel in my house 
ever since she first came there, at six years old. 
She’ll have all I’ve got, of course; but the man 
who marries her will have more than the riches of 
this world! ” 

“ Any one in sight yet? ” I inquired. 

“No,” answered the great jurist slowly. “And 
I doubt if Mollie is a marrying girl. Her thoughts 
are elsewhere. I thought I’d lost her in this war.” 

“In this war! Oh, she was a nurse, I sup¬ 
pose? ” 

“Yes; and many a poor fellow owes his life to 
her. But she took ill herself at last, and for a 
month she was on the brink! Exactly what ailed 
her nobody could tell. She would go off into long 
trances; and when she came to, she would refer to 
some young man she thought she had been tend- 
24 

















A lovely girl she turned out to be.. 






ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


ing—ministering to his soul, it appeared, as well 
as to his body. 1 1 shall save him, ’ she would 
say; ‘ he’s a noble, good fellow, but he has never 
known our Lord.’ It was a singular case, because 
she always alluded to this same young man, and 
described his progress under her care day after 
day, until he was out of danger.” 

“A soldier, of course?” 

“Yes; a private in one of the regiments in the 
San Juan fight, she said. Was wounded, and got 
all the fevers. You would have thought he was 
a flesh-and-blood reality, to hear her talk of him. 
She even imagined she had given him a keepsake 
—some little ornament that had belonged to her 
grandmother. ” 

“What was it?” I asked, as a queer thought 
dashed into my mind. 

“ Oh, a little crystal locket, with a bit of yellow 
hair in it—baby hair, I presume. She has always 
worn it round her neck. She fancied she had 
given it to him, and was a good deal puzzled when 
she found it in her jewel-box after she got well.” 

This talk was in the club. I said no more at 
the time; I felt it necessary to think. But I ac¬ 
cepted an invitation to dine with the judge at his 
house that evening and meet Miss Mollie. A 
lovely girl she turned out to be, with dark hair and 
eyes, a pale, mystic face, and a mouth which I can 
only call divinely beautiful. “ You never met Tom 
25 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


Forrest, who distinguished himself at San Juan? 75 
I took occasion to ask her during the evening. 

“ I may have met him in the hospital without 
knowing his name, 77 she said. Her voice was ex¬ 
quisite—low, distinct, and tender. 

“No, he didn 7 t get into the hospital, 77 I replied. 
“ He was caught at the landing and taken right 
home. He had a remarkable hallucination during 
his illness, Bob, 77 I added, turning to the judge. 
“He fancied he was tended by a young woman 
whom he called Mercy Holland. She seemed to 
have a strong religious influence over him—he had 
been rather deficient in that way previously. She 
almost came to seem a reality to us at last. He 
declared she had given him some memento, and 
was much distressed when he couldn’t find it. 
‘ We are such stuff as dreams are made of,’ ” I 
added, smiling. 

I had shot my bolt; did it hit the mark? I 
could not tell. The judge apparently took little 
notice, and soon changed the subject (but Mollie 
lapsed into a star-eyed silence). After dinner, in 
the drawing-room, I took a seat beside her. I had 
already noticed a slender gold chain round her 
throat; she had now drawn out the pendant that 
was attached to it, and was turning it between her 
slender fingers. It was an egg-shaped crystal 
about three quarters of an inch long, and there 
was a golden gleam from within it. 

26 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 


“ My grandmother’s name—her maiden name— 
was Mercy Holland, ” said she; “ and my Christian 
name is the same as hers, though I am called 
Mollie. ” 

“ Is that her hair in the locket? ” I asked. 

“ I have always supposed so, ” said she. 

She took it very quietly; but I felt that I was 
treading on holy ground. “I would like to bring 
my friend Tom Forrest to see you,” I said after 
a while. 

“Yes, I must see him,” she replied, with a 
slight tremor in her wonderful voice. She com¬ 
prehended the situation, but it did not astonish 
her. Persons who, like her, live in the spirit 
have their own interpretation of what we prefer 
to call coincidences. 

The meeting, as it chanced, took place accident¬ 
ally on the avenue, where I was walking with Tom 
three days later. I had told him nothing. She 
came walking toward us, alone, but stopped as she 
recognized me. “Here’s a friend of mine I want 
you to know,” said I, indicating Tom. Neither 
of them knew the other; but when she spoke, Tom 
started, and he always insisted afterward that he 
recognized her voice. “I spoke to you of Tom 
Forrest, you know,” I said to her. She looked 
earnestly in his face, and a shade of perplexity or 
disappointment darkened in her eyes. Now, Tom 
had grown absurdly fat since his illness, and seemed 
27 


ONE OF THOSE COINCIDENCES 

a full twenty pounds heavier than he had been before 
enlisting. I put my hand in my pocket, and pulled 
out the photograph I had taken of him when he 
came up from the landing at Wykoff. She glanced 
at the gaunt, bearded countenance; her own face 
lightened with a marvelous, maidenly radiance, 
and she put out her hand. 

“But you haven’t told him my name,” she said 
to me. 

Then Tom’ s eyes were opened. (“ Mercy Hol¬ 
land!” said he.) 

I am an annalist, not a prophet; and I have 
brought this tale up to date—the meeting occurred 
only a week ago. What the end will be, you can 
surmise to suit yourself; all I can add, at present, 
is that Tom has the crystal locket. As to expla¬ 
nations, I have absolutely none to offer. 


28 


# 



“Mercy Holland,” said he. 


**f*''< 










Francisco 


By 

Wolcott Le Clear Beard 


Illustrations 

By 

Charles Johnson Post 


29 




















































































































FRANCISCO 


PART I. 

The hour and method chosen by Francisco for 
making our acquaintance—the acquaintance of 
Company M of the 15th—were, to say the least, 
uncommon. That was not so strange—most things 
that Francisco did were uncommon—but the method 
also lacked that dignity which has always been one 
of Francisco’s strongest points. 

We were a one-company post, detached from our 
regiment and stationed on the great military road 
which divides Puerto Rico in halves to keep order 
along a portion of its length. The hour was about 
two in the morning, the night had been fearfully 
hot, and I, unable to sleep, was still tossing un¬ 
easily on my camp-cot in the lieutenants’ tent at 
the head of the company street when there came 
the crack of a pistol-shot faint in the distance. I 
sat up and listened. Then followed another re¬ 
port, still another, and finally a scattering volley, 
sounding like a distant pack of firecrackers. I 
31 



FRANCISCO 


jumped out of bed and began frantically to scram¬ 
ble into my uniform—just as one of the sentinels 
fired bis rifle and called for tbe guard. 

In an instant the camp was humming like a bee¬ 
hive. Men were tumbling out as non-commissioned 
officers in sketchy attire ran from one tent to an¬ 
other and the bugles blew the shrill call to arms. 
By the time I stepped forth, hooking my belt as I 
went, the men were standing in an excited but 
orderly line. The flaps of the captain’s tent parted, 
and his head poked out. 

“ I don’t want to go, and you’re the only other 
company officer, ” quoth he sleepily. “ You know 
what to do. If you find any guerrillas, bring them 
back and put them in the guard-house until morn¬ 
ing. If you catch anybody and don’t know 
whether he’s a guerrilla or not, give him the bene¬ 
fit of the doubt and bring him in anyhow. See 
you at breakfast.” The captain’s head vanished 
before it finished speaking. 

With a rattle of breech-blocks and magazines 
the pieces were loaded and locked; the bayonets 
glanced in the watery moonlight as they left their 
scabbards. More shots, yells, and a red glare in 
the sky gave an extra spring to the legs of the 
company as it wheeled into a column of fours and 
with its army brogans pounded the macadam of 
the great road. The glare diminished as we went, 
but the shooting increased, and so did the yells. 

32 


FRANCISCO 


No Puerto Rican can do anything without yelling. 
From the sounds, we were drawing nearer the 
scene of action; then a turn in the road brought 
us within sight of it. 

In the center of a square field surrounded on 
three sides by banana-plantations stood a house— 
evidently a place of some importance, for it was 
large and built of brick. Several native huts of 
flimsy thatch had been standing near it, but now 
their sites were marked only by piles of glowing 
coals, around which stood their former inhabitants, 
gazing in terror at the crowd of men which ranged 
about the great house. By the dim moonlight, 
aided by the dull, red glow of the coals, we could 
see this crowd only as a black mass—a yelling, 
shifting mass—from which issued spirts of flame, 
yells, and reports of pistols as it swayed this way 
and that in front of the veranda which shadowed 
the door. 

“Shall I get off the flankin' parties, sorr?” 
whispered Sergeant Clancy. I nodded—I had 
been about to give the order. Three detachments: 
one to each side and one to the back of the field. 
Each party on reaching its station was to extend its 
line and cover the side assigned to it, while the rest 
of the company deployed under cover of the pine¬ 
apple-hedge that divided the field from the road. 

Suddenly several men darted from the yelling 
crowd and ran toward the veranda steps. They 
3 33 


FRANCISCO 


did not get far. A red flash streaked the dark¬ 
ness, accompanied by the resounding bang of a 
shotgun. Nobody seemed hurt—I could hear the 
shot tearing through the leaves of the banana- 
palms—but it had a wonderful effect. The men 
who had started for the house ran much faster in 
the opposite direction, and the crowd scattered 
like the pieces of a bursting shell. In another 
moment, tho, it reassembled, yelping shrill curses 
at those within. 

“Them fellers is the native population, sorr, 
I’m thinkin’,” said First Sergeant Clancy, in a 
low tone. “ They’re makin’ an effort to get even 
with the Spanishers what lives in that house. 
See! They’re a-thryin’ it again.” Sure enough, 
they did “thry it again,” and again the shotgun 
spoke—and this time with more success. No one 
fell, it is true, but some yells that followed were 
yells of pain and not of rage alone. The men 
laughed, yet they fidgeted nervously as they lay 
on the ground behind the hedge; the non-commis¬ 
sioned officers spoke to them in gruff whispers, 
telling them to wait and give the flanking parties 
time to reach their posts. The men had not long 
to wait. A shrill whistle coming from one side 
of the rectangular field was answered after short 
intervals by other whistles from the remaining two 
sides. Then at a nod from me a bugler jumped 
to his feet and, running a little way into the field, 
34 


FRANCISCO 


began to blow. He was a young bugler, and was 
much excited. Instead of the “assembly,” which 
he was to have sounded, the jerky notes of the 
mess-call sounded through the air: 

“Porky, porky, porky, 

Come and get your beans.” 

With a yell, half laugh and half cheer, the men 
sprang to their feet and rushed forward. Then 
for the first time the assailants saw us. The 
crowd dissolved like a puff of smoke, and those 
who had composed it ran in frantic efforts to es¬ 
cape first to one, then another side of the field— 
only to be turned back by the rows of shining bay¬ 
onets which met them. The bayonets advanced, 
drawing nearer together as they did so. It was 
all over in a few minutes. The company, stand¬ 
ing in a hollow square, faced inward, surround¬ 
ing a frightened, dejected herd of men, who stood 
huddled together, thoroughly convinced that they 
had been so gathered ready for the slaughter which 
their former masters, the Spaniards, had so often 
told them was the invariable American custom. 
Our prisoners were much relieved, therefore, when, 
instead of being killed, they were merely marched 
under guard to the road and held there. They 
thought, as I afterward discovered, that the mas¬ 
sacre would without doubt come later; still, it 
was a reprieve. 


35 


FRANCISCO 


In the mean time the ground was once more 
carefully drawn by a line of men, with the re¬ 
sulting discovery of one or two stragglers who 
had hidden themselves here and there behind 
bushes and the like. They were sent to join the 
others. 

The house itself remained dark and silent. 
Whether or not any one inside had been hurt, it 
was impossible to say. 

“ Who is there in the house? ” I called in Span¬ 
ish. I waited, and receiving no reply, I repeated 
the question. 

“ I am here—and others, ” a shrill voice at last 
answered. “ Leave us. He who attempts to come 
in will be shot.” 

“ It’s a boy,” whispered Sergeant Clancy,—“ or a 
gurrul.” As he spoke he incautiously showed him¬ 
self. A gun-barrel immediately protruded from a 
hole in the door—from where I stood I could see it 
against the sky. A click followed, as tho the 
hammer had fallen on an empty shell. There was 
a cry of disappointment, and the gun-barrel van¬ 
ished. The door of the house was thrown open; 
we could hear the creak of the hinges, but could see 
nothing—it was too dark. 

Sergeant Clancy, who stood nearest the steps, 
darted up, and I followed. There was a scram¬ 
bling rush and a howl; the sergeant flew backward 
down the steps, crushing me nearly to the bottom 
36 


FRANCISCO 


in his flight. As he passed into the moonlight I 
saw that he was doubled over the head of a goat— 
a male goat of truly phenomenal size, who had hit 
the sergeant exactly on the belt, doubling him up 
like a foot-rule. Hard on the heels of the goat 
ran a small boy, shrieking encouragement to him 
and defiance to us, and brandishing a huge ma¬ 
chete. As I stepped forward he raised his weapon 
and aimed a fierce cut at my head. Instinctively I 
parried the stroke with my sword, at the same 
time catching his wrist with my left hand and 
passing him down to the men below me. Then I 
had time to look around. 

The sergeant lay gasping on the ground, and the 
goat was cautiously backing off, nodding his head, 
and making ready for another blow. Two men, 
stepping forward, caught his horns. Then he 
reared, plunged, and struggled. One of the men 
tripped and fell, pulling the goat and the other 
man over on top of him. In an instant the mixture 
of legs, horns, and rifles was so thorough that the 
eye was quite unable to distinguish which portions 
belonged together. The two men implored help, 
but their comrades, faint with laughter, looked 
gleefully on and did not stir. 

It was only by my most imperative orders that 
some of the men at last interfered and brought the 
billy-goat, still anxious to fight, to a reluctant 
stand—just as the first sergeant sat up and looked 
37 


FRANCISCO 


about him. At first he appeared a little dazed; 
but he rose, and, still puffing from the effect of the 
blow, he walked over to the boy and caught him 
by the collar of his shirt. 

“ Is there anny wan hurrted in that house, me 
young man ?” he inquired. Somebody translated 
the question, and the boy shook his head. Then 
the sergeant shifted his hold from the shirt-collar 
to the ear of its wearer, picked up the machete 
from the ground where it had fallen, and walked 
over to the steps. He sat down, and, laying the 
lad carefully across his blue-clad knee, with the 
flat side of the machete he administered as sound 
a spanking as ever a boy received since the world 
began. 

“I beg pardon, lootinint,” he said, rising and 
saluting as the operation was finished; “ I thought 
sorr, ’twas best so. 'Twas a good fight he put up, 
sorr, an’ he only a boy. I thought that maybe 
’twouldn’t be nectary to arrist him with the oth¬ 
ers. ” 

I quite agreed with the sergeant. Certainly the 
boy had already enough punishment to satisfy any 
reasonable person, and I willingly agreed that he 
should not be “ arristed.” I turned to tell him so; 
but he had apparently come to the same conclusion. 
At all events he had disappeared. 

For some minutes the sky had been clouding, 
and now the sudden rain of those latitudes began 
38 


FRANCISCO 


to descend in sheets. It was very dark. The 
guards around the prisoners were trebled in num¬ 
ber, and, hurriedly forming the company, we 
splashed homeward along the road. The water 
filtered thru our campaign-hats, and we were soaked 
to the skin in an instant. The very sound of our 
footsteps was drowned by the roar of the rain as it 
beat on the stiff leaves of the palm-trees that lined 
our path. 

It was not my turn to take reveille roll-call the 
next morning, and I slept late. When at last I 
was dressed and strolled over to our extemporized 
mess-tent, hungry and more than ready for break¬ 
fast, I found my usual seat on one of the benches 
which served as chairs taken up by what appeared 
to be a large bundle of blankets. I was about to 
tumble it to the ground when Brown, my serv¬ 
ant, caught my arm. 

“Beg yer pardon, loot’nant,” said he apologeti¬ 
cally. “ I didn’t have time to speak. That’s San- 
fro, sir.” 

“He means Sanfrisco, sir,” explained Harkins, 
the captain’s “striker,” who was present, with a 
look of pity at my man. 

“Who on earth is Sanfrisco? and where?” I 
asked, much puzzled. At that moment the bundle 
of blankets began to squirm. Fronfone end a head 
presently issued, followed by the body belonging 
to it, and in a moment the boy who had disap- 
39 


FRANCISCO 


peared the night before rolled on to the ground and 
scrambled to his feet. He came to attention and 
sainted as he had seen the men do. 

“ It is I, senor. Francisco, the man intended to 
say,” said he, looking up at me. He had a singu¬ 
larly attractive face, with the largest brown eyes 
and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. Tho he 
was very dark, it was quite evident that no negro 
blood flowed in his veins. 

“ How did you get here? ” I inquired. 

“ I wish to explain, senor. I have already done 
so to the other officer, Senor el Capitan,” he an¬ 
swered, with the gravity of one Spanish grandee 
addressing another. “ Last night I found it nec¬ 
essary to defend the house. Those who were at¬ 
tacking were my countrymen, and the man and his 
wife who lived in the house were Spanish; but they 
were old and helpless, and had been good to me. 
And then the soldiers came. They, too, are 
against the Spanish, and I therefore continued to 
fight. When I found that they had come to pro¬ 
tect the old man and his wife, I was sorry, but I 
did not tell you so at that time, Senor el Teniente, 
for you would have said that I was afraid. Then 
I came here. The sentinel turned me back, but I 
passed him when he was looking another way, and 

with me came Borinquen-” 

“That’s his goat, sir,” explained Brown, who 
had caught the name, pointing to that valiant ani- 
40 



FRANCISCO 


malj who, tied to the wheel of a wagon, was com¬ 
posedly cropping the rich grass. 

“ This morning, ” Francisco went on, “ these 
men met me. They took me before Senor el Cap- 
itan, who commanded that I be dressed thus, and 
fed, and wrapped up as you saw me. Truly it was 
warm.” Then for the first time I noticed that 
Francisco wore a pair of army trousers and a flan¬ 
nel shirt. Both the sleeves and the trousers-]egs 
were turned up until there was little of them left, 
but even at that they were too long. 

“What do you intend to do now, Francisco?” 
I ventured to inquire, somewhat appalled by his 
dignity. 

“ I am an American, senor, and it is proper that 
I should become a soldier of the United States. I 
intend to enlist in this company, and Borinquen 
also.” The two men respectfully stifled a laugh 
as the boy finished, and, turning about, departed. 

That Francisco had adopted us for his own, there 
could be no doubt. He made that fact evident 
with a calm positiveness that was all his own. 
Every one liked the boy, and he soon became as 
much a part of the half-military, half-pastoral life 
that we led in that out-of-the-way place as tho he 
had really enlisted in the company—as, in truth, 
he thought he had. This belief on his part was 
due, as we afterward discovered, to a prank on the 
part of some of the men, who had put him thru an 
41 


FRANCISCO 


“ initiation ” which they solemnly assured him was 
the regular way of joining the army. We also 
learned that the pluck with which the boy had 
gone thru with these ordeals contributed largely to 
his popularity. Among the firmest of Francisco’s 
friends was the first sergeant. For the boy’s sake 
he even tolerated Borinquen, notwithstanding the 
fact that this redoubtable animal still cherished a 
grudge against his ancient foe, and never missed an 
opportunity of trying to repeat the exploit of their 
first meeting. He never succeeded, however. One 
such affair was enough, and the sergeant was 
wary. 

A few days after Francisco’s arrival his cup of 
happiness was nearly filled, for he appeared in full 
uniform, cut down to fit him by the company tailor. 
Even the campaign-hat was there; but as it was 
impossible to cut that down, it became necessary 
to stuff paper under the inner band in order to 
make it small enough. This gave our recruit a 
somewhat mushroom-like appearance; but the glit¬ 
tering brass ornament with which the hat was 
decorated more than made up for any small short¬ 
comings. After this he fell in with the company 
at all roll-calls, never missing one, and seemed to 
learn the drill almost by intuition. Yet there was 
something lacking. He, a“soldado Americano,” 
had no rifle. Tho he fully understood that the 
men had but one apiece, and that therefore there 
42 















































































































































































He requested three days’ leave of absence. 
















FRANCISCO 


was none left for him, yet it troubled him nothing 
less for that. 

For some days Francisco studied this problem, 
then he went to the captain and requested three 
days’ leave of absence. The captain was amused; 
Francisco was a great favorite of his, tho he seldom 
showed it. “Well, Francisco,” said he, “from 
what I hear, you have been taking a leave of ab¬ 
sence every day, yet this is the first time you have 
asked me for a pass.” 

“That is true, senor,” acknowledged the boy 
frankly; “ but then I needed no pass. I went by the 
guard-house in the long grass, or when the sentinel 
was not looking, just as the other soldiers do.” 

Here some of the men who had been loitering 
about to hear what Francisco had to say left hur¬ 
riedly, pursued by the subdued chuckles of their 
comrades. 

“ Do you know what happens to the other sol¬ 
diers, as you call them, when they try to run the 
guard? ” asked the captain, trying to hide a smile. 

“ Truly I do, senor. They are put in the guard¬ 
house and made to work at unpleasant tasks,” re¬ 
plied Francisco composedly, “ when they are 
caught. ” 

“ Then, Francisco, why should I not do the same 
to you? ” 

“ Because, senor, I have not been caught. ” 

“There’s unanswerable logic in that,” said the 
43 


FRANCISCO 


captain to me, turning to his field-desk in order 
to write out a pass. “I don’t think he had a no¬ 
tion that the men were doing anything wrong when 
they ran the guard, and they couldn’t tell him— 
he don’t know a word of English. He fancied it 
was a sort of game between them and the officers.” 
He handed the pass to Francisco, explaining to 
him at the same time the nature of the offense of 
which he had been guilty. The way that Fran¬ 
cisco received the explanation was ample corrobo¬ 
ration of the captain’s theory. Indeed, the look of 
utter contempt which he cast at one or two of the 
men known to have offended in the same way was 
proof in itself. 

Francisco took the pass, saluted, and making an 
accurate “ about face, ” departed to prepare for his 
journey. The captain watched him as he went. 
“I hesitated at first,” said he, after a pause; “but 
now, do you know, I’m sure that it’s a good thing 
to have that boy about, for the company as well as 
for him. He’s absolutely honest. Hid you see 
how uncomfortable those men looked when he 
glanced at them? And some of the others are 
making all manner of fun of them now—you can 
see, down by the cook-house, there. It will tend 
to raise the standard. It won’t be my fault if it 
doesn’t, anyway.” 

“Nor mine,” said I. “I wonder what he want¬ 
ed to go away for? To see his parents? ” 

44 


FRANCISCO 


The captain started. “ I never thought to ask 
him,” said he. “He hasn’t any parents, and no 
relatives; I found that out days ago. But he’ll be 
back at the end of the three days. He said he 
would, and he will.” 


PART II. 

During the time that Francisco was gone there 
was considerable speculation among the men as to 
where he was and whether or not he would return. 
That he fully intended to return I never had a 
moment’s doubt; but as the time drew near I be¬ 
gan to be troubled for fear something had happened 
to him. We had no idea where he was; the mo¬ 
ment he passed the guard-house he seemed to have 
vanished into thin air. 

On the afternoon of the third day the captain 
was absent, and I, therefore, in command. I was 
sitting at the door of my tent when the first ser¬ 
geant came up. “ Well? ” I inquired. 

“The kid, sorr. Fran—San—Fran—Sanfran- 
cisco, sorr. He’s come back. An’ he’s got a 
goon.” 

“ Got a gun? Where on earth did he get it? ” 

“I dunno, sorr, but he’s got it, an’ a belt too. 
He’s in my tent now, clanin’ himself to come an’ 
report. Here he is.” The sergeant fell back 
with a grin that was stopped only by his ears as 
45 


FKANCISCO 


Franscisco, his uniform spotlessly neat, issued 
from the tent. Over his shoulder was a cavalry 
carbine, and a cartridge-belt encircled his waist. 
But it was not a belt such as our soldiers used; I 
noticed that instantty. He came to the tent door, 
halted, and saluted, but this time he made the 
rifle salute. 

“ I have returned, Senor el Teniente, ” said he. 
“ It was necessary that I should have a rifle, and 
so I went and got one.” 

“ So I see, Francisco; but where did you get it? ” 
I asked. 

“ Senor, I took it from the enemy. Their guard 
is not strict when it sees boys like me, there are 
so many boys, and I had taken off my uniform. I 
chose the rifle of the cavalry, for it is shorter than 
the others, and I am small. Two belts I brought, 
both of them full. The other is now in the tent of 
El Sargento Clan-cee.” 

“What is that he says, sorr?” asked the ser. 
geant. I translated, and he looked amazed, as 
well he might. It was rather stupendous, this feat 
of Francisco’s. The Spanish lines were about eigh¬ 
teen miles away, and this boy in some way had 
passed their guards, made his way to a camp of 
cavalry or artillery, got his rifle and two belts, and 
then returned—and all in something under three 
days. 

“ I think you can not know what the Spaniards 
46 


FRANCISCO 


would have done to you if they had caught you,” 
I said severely. 

“Yes, senor, they would have killed me,” he 
calmly replied. And there is no doubt but what 
they would have done so. I took the carbine from 
him and inspected it. Sure enough, it was a 
Mauser, such as the Spanish use, and differing iu 
several important details from our Krag-Jorgensen. 
The belt, too, as I had noticed before, had not 
loops for single cartridges like ours, but pockets 
for groups of five, held together in their tin clips. 

I returned the rifle to Francisco and dismissed 
him. I was somewhat in doubt at first as to what 
to do about the case, yet, when I came to think 
about it, there was no good reason that I could see 
why I should take from the boy his hard-earned 
prize. Certainly I had no right to return captured 
arms to the enemy, and no orders had been issued 
from headquarters as to the disposition of such 
weapons. In fact, as far as I know, this rifle was 
the first one to be captured in Puerto Rico. Time 
enough to be thinking about taking it away from 
Francisco when such orders should be issued. So 
I left it all to the captain, and when he returned he 
decided as I had done. 

Sergeant Clancy repeated with full detail Fran¬ 
cisco’s exploit to the other men, and many of them 
were very much inclined to make a hero of the boy; 
but of that he knew little, not understanding the 
47 


FRANCISCO 


language, and probably caring less. To him the 
important thing was that he now had his rifle, and 
could fall in with the others at drill, as, in spite 
of his fatigue, he did that very afternoon. His 
observations of the drills had been close, and this 
now helped him, so that his performance was ex¬ 
ceedingly creditable. It was so creditable, indeed, 
that the first sergeant took occasion, when I had 
left him to dismiss the men, of holding Francisco 
up as an example to be followed by the company. 

“If anny av you men happened to be breakin’ 
reg’lations by squintin’ to wan side durin’ the 
dhrill,” said he, “I wondher that ye were not 
’shamed when ye saw that boy. I’m not sayin’ 
that ye did so badly, but this is his first dhrill, 
an’ I don’t think ther’s wan av you that can beat 
him, even so. Port ar-rms! Dismissed! But all 
the same,” he went on, speaking in a lower tone 
and addressing Franscisco, “ when you’ve had as 
much av this sort of thing as the other boys have 
you’ll not be so keen on it, I’m thinkin’, me son.” 

Francisco, not understanding a word, only 
grinned and saluted by way of answer, and ran to 
wrap up his precious rifle and safely deposit it in 
one of the tents before untying Borinquen. 

Whenever Francisco was not engaged in duties, 
military or otherwise, where a goat would be quite 
impossible, he and Borinquen were nearly always 
together. Indeed, orders had been issued to that 
48 


FBANCISCO 


effect: that when Francisco was not with him Bo¬ 
rinquen was to be tied. This happened when, 
one day, I found that worthy animal lying on my 
cot, eating with every appearance of relish a court- 
martial report which I had just finished copying. 
Borinquen left my tent with some rapidity, just 
missing, as he went, one of the men who had come 
to complain of a grievance similar to mine. 

“I ? d just washed a pair o' stockin's, sir, an' 
hung 'em out," he said, “an' found this here goat, 
sir, just finishin' one of 'em an' gettin' ready to 
commence on the other. When I hollered at him 
he just wagged his whiskers at me an' then bunted 
me over." This act on the part of Borinquen, the 
man hastened to explain, was all done in a playful 
and thoroughly friendly spirit; still, the quarter¬ 
master's department didn't issue stockings with 
any intention of having them fed to goats. And 
it isn't pleasant to be bunted over, either. 

When in the company of his master, however, 
Borinquen was as harmless as possible; but as time 
went on he had less and less of this company, and 
at last, when in the camp, he was nearly always 
tied. Francisco was busy about things in which 
the goat could not assist. He took to doing little 
odd jobs for the men—washing their tin plates, 
running errands, and the like. For each of these 
services they would offer him two or three of the 
enormous coppers of Puerto Rico, which he accept- 
4 49 


FRANCISCO 


ed with evident reluctance—but which, neverthe¬ 
less, he did accept. 

Francisco’s daily absences continued. He never 
ran the guard after he had promised not to, but the 
captain, tired of daily filling out a pass for the boy, 
had given him one “ good until revoked.” Armed 
with this, he would fit a pair of small saddle-bags, 
manufactured by himself, on the back of Borin- 
quen, and the two would vanish and be gone for 
hours. The pennies earned by Francisco appar¬ 
ently went with him on these expeditions, but he 
never seemed to spend any of them. Francisco’s 
money got to be a joke in the company. Some of 
the men who could speak a little Spanish would 
ask him what interest he would charge in lending 
a large sum; or talk of waiting for a dark night 
and then robbing him. The boy really seemed to 
get money for no other purpose than to hoard it. 
He worked harder and harder; and at last he be¬ 
gan to neglect somewhat the appearance of mili¬ 
tary neatness and the duties of which he was so 
proud. Then I began to feel a regretful disap¬ 
pointment in Francisco, and so, I know, did the 
captain. But worse was to follow. 

That food had in a mysterious manner been dis¬ 
appearing from our commissary tent was beyond 
question. For weeks the cooks had been complain¬ 
ing of it, and Petersen, the melancholy Swedish 
sergeant in charge of our food supplies, had vainly 
50 


FRANCISCO 


laid trap after trap to catch the thief. Short ra¬ 
tions, to men in the field, is not a joking matter. 
Various theories, all of them absurd, as to the 
identity of the guilty one were advanced, and each 
man looked on his neighbor with suspicion, but to 
no avail. Then a faint rumor that Francisco was 
suspected came to our ears. 

The captain disbelieved this story utterly; so 
did I; and when Sergeant Clancy was called in and 
questioned he agreed with us. The commissary 
tent was rigidly guarded, and even if Francisco 
could have slipped by the sentinels he would hard¬ 
ly be able to obtain duplicate keys of the chests in 
which the different kinds of provisions were kept. 
And then stealing was the last thing of which one 
would suspect Francisco. 

Still, the suspicion grew. Two of the men 
watched him, one day, as he and the goat passed 
up the road, and noticed that the little saddle-bags 
were as full as they could hold. When the pair 
returned the bags were empty. The next day they 
watched Francisco again, and this time they ar¬ 
rested him. 

The captain was sitting in the shade of his tent- 
fly veranda, and I was within, writing at his desk, 
when I heard him exclaim and rise suddenly from 
his chair. Suspecting something wrong, I stepped 
outside. 

Guarded on each side by their captors, Francisco 
51 


FEANCISCO 


and Borinquen were coming up the company street 
as prisoners. Behind them walked Sergeants Pe¬ 
tersen and Clancy—the first stolid and to all ap¬ 
pearances indifferent, the latter with a look of real 
concern on his honest Irish face. Two of the 
three cooks followed them closely, and a little back 
of the cooks most of the company came hesitatingly 
forward and halted at a little distance from the 
captain’s tent. 

“Well, sergeant, what does this mean?” de¬ 
manded the captain, tho he perfectly well knew. 

“I’m afraid it looks bad, sorr,” said Clancy, sor¬ 
rowfully shaking his head. “ These men here say 
that they caught the lad, here, Fran—Sanfrisco, 
red-handed, like, with the grub. Hitchcock! Dal¬ 
ton ! ” The two men stepped forward and told 
frankly, yet with evident regret, the story of Fran¬ 
cisco’s capture. It had been planned to prove his 
innocence rather than his guilt, one of the men 
explained, and, I for one, believed him readily 
enough. Then Borinquen was brought forward, 
and the hardtack, bacon, and flour that his saddle¬ 
bags contained were piled at the captain’s feet. 
There was no way in which the boy could legiti¬ 
mately have obtained these things. The proof 
against him seemed painfully complete. 

“ Have you anything to say, Sergeant Petersen? ” 
asked the captain. 

“No, saer,” answered the Swede, saluting. 

52 



Francisco and Borinquen were coming up as prisoners 































































































; D«.. .iifj j 


















































FRANCISCO 


“ ’Cept ah al-ways tank dat he was a gode boy, 
and ah kin da tanks so yaet.” 

Involuntarily lowering his voice somewhat, the 
captain called for Francisco. The lad, in spite 
of his ignorance of English, evidently understood 
something of what was going on. His dark skin 
had turned very pale, and he was trembling as he 
stepped up to the tent-fly and saluted. 

“Francisco,” said the captain gravely, “you 
have been found with these goods in your posses¬ 
sion, and you are accused of stealing them. What 
have you to say? ” 

“ I am no thief, senor. I am a soldier. I have 
stolen nothing,” he replied, with a little catch in 
his breath. A big tear rolled slowly down his 
cheek, and another chased it. He started to raise 
his hand to wipe them away, but discipline pre¬ 
vailed. Bethinking himself, he dropped the hand 
to his side, and continued to stand at “attention.” 

“ Where did you get that food, then? ” asked the 
captain severely. “And to whom did you sell 
it?” 

“ I sold it to no one. And I did not steal it. 
I bought it. Do you think I would steal, senor? 
I bought it with the money I earned. The old 
man—the Spaniard—is now in bed, and can not 
rise, he is so ill. But for this food he would have 
starved.” Francisco’s voice became more and 
more shaky. To him the captain was the most ex- 
53 


FRANCISCO 


alted being on earth—one who must be obeyed even 
by the venerated first sergeant. That such a be¬ 
ing should think that he, Francisco, could steal was 
too much. For a time he struggled against the 
tears that would come, but it was of no use. With 
Borinquen looking on in grave reproof, he sank in a 
little heap on the ground and sobbed just as tho 
he were a small boy, much hurt and grieved, and 
not a soldier at all. 

“ From whom did you buy this food? ” asked 
the captain, more gently. 

“ That I must not say, senor. I promised not 
to,” Francisco managed to reply. “He is ill and 
can not eat his rations, and therefore sells them to 
me. He needs medicine, he says, that the soldier- 
surgeon has not got, and it is for this that Ho- 

nays-” Inadvertently Francisco had evidently 

divulged the name he had promised to keep secret, 
and he glanced up in dismay. 

The captain looked puzzled, and translated Fran¬ 
cisco’s reply to the first sergeant. 

“Honays, Honays,” repeated Clancy. “No 
man av that name in the comp’ny, sorr.” 

The captain was already aware of that fact. 

“I tank it might be Chones he means, saer,” 
suggested Sergeant Petersen respectfully. “It 
wade be br-ronounced dat way in Spaenish.” 

“An’ Jones it is! ” ejaculated the first sergeant, 
as tho to himself. “ Rum—the kind they makes 
54 


FRANCISCO 


around here—is the kind o’ medicine he was a- 
talkin’ about.” 

“ He’s the third man of the cook detail. He 
has access to the commissary stores, ” observed the 
captain to me. Sergeant Clancy was standing like 
a dog that strains at its chain. The captain nod¬ 
ded, and he darted down the company street, en¬ 
tering the last tent on the right-hand side. He 
emerged in a moment. With one hand he led 
Jones by the ear, and carried in the other a bottle 
half full of the most malignant rum that Puerto 
Rico could produce. 

Jones had evidently taken several large doses 
of his medicine. Under the captain’s searching 
questions he hesitated, stammered, contradicted 
himself, and finally, in trying to mend matters, re¬ 
vealed enough to convict him a dozen times over. 
Then the captain made a little speech to Jones—a 
speech such as few men would care to have made 
to them—and then he was led away, amid the half- 
suppressed hooting of his comrades, to the guard¬ 
house. 

The captain sat down at his field-desk and for a 
few minutes busied himself in making some notes 
for the formal charges which he intended to draw 
against Jones and hand in to the general court- 
martial then sitting. Jones had been guilty of two 
serious offenses: theft and bringing liquor into 
the camp. The captain meant that he should be 
55 


FRANCISCO 


punished for both to the full extent of the military- 
law. The bringing of Francisco into the affair 
added an element of meanness to it that the captain 
would not forgive. 

At last the captain paused and looked around 
the corner of his desk. “ Francisco! ” he said sud¬ 
denly. The boy, who had not changed his posi¬ 
tion, obediently scrambled to his feet, stood at at¬ 
tention, and saluted. “ It is not proper for a sol¬ 
dier to cry like that,” the captain went on. “Go, 
eat your supper and get a good night’s rest, for 
to-morrow you will be detailed for guard.” 

Francisco’s face was beaming as he saluted and 
retired. A tour of guard duty is not regarded by 
most soldiers as a thing to be desired—quite the 
reverse, in fact; but with Francisco it was differ¬ 
ent. To him it was an honor which he had long 
coveted, and which was now for the first time ac¬ 
corded him. 

“ You see, there’s really no further use for that 
sentry by the commissary tent now,” the captain 
explained to me. “ I was going to leave that post 
out of the detail for to-morrow; but if Francisco 
can get any pleasure out of that particular spot 
it’s only fair that he should have all there is, after 
what he’s been through to-day.” 

Sergeant Clancy declared that when Francisco 
came down the company street after leaving the 
captain he had grown a full inch. Francisco’s 
56 


FRANCISCO 


thorough vindication pleased the sergeant—and in¬ 
deed the company as a whole—almost as much as it 
did the boy himself. The men also sympathized 
with his pleasure in this new honor which had been 
offered him, but they did not show it. It was not 
their way. Instead, they began to tease him about 
his crying, calling him a baby, and expressing many 
doubts as to whether or not he had sufficient cour¬ 
age for a sentinel. Suppose a little girl, armed 
with a stick, should try to break into the store 
tent. What would Francisco do then? Would 
he have enough presence of mind, did he think, to 
call for the corporal of the guard? 

For that night, however, Francisco’s happiness 
was proof against all such taunts. He made no 
answer when they were translated to him, but bus¬ 
ied himself in cleaning still more his already 
immaculate equipment until the sweet notes of 
“ taps ” sung all the men to their blankets. 

The next morning, when the galloping guard- 
mount call blew, Francisco was the first to re¬ 
spond. None of the men moved with such mathe¬ 
matical accuracy as he. They were all neat, as 
the regulations require, but no buttons were so 
brilliant, no uniform so thoroughly brushed, no 
boots so well polished, and no rifle so speckless as 
the buttons, clothes, and cavalry carbine of Fran¬ 
cisco. 

The non-commissioned officers of the guard could 
57 


FRANCISCO 


speak no Spanish, and so I gave Francisco the 
special orders relating to his post. They were 
very simple. I said, merely, that no person whom¬ 
soever should be allowed to enter the store tent. 
That was careless of me; I should have said “ no 
unauthorized person.” 

What followed was therefore my fault. From 
my tent I heard loud voices near Francisco’s post. 
Then I heard him call for the corporal of the 
guard—he knew English enough to do that—and 
the corporal came, adding another voice to the 
chorus. Most of the men seemed to have an idea 
that Francisco could understand them if they only 
talked loud enough. 

A moment later the corporal appeared at the 
door of my tent, and said that, tho he was sorry to 
trouble me, yet he thought I would have to go 
down and speak to the sentry on Post No. 8, who 
had “somehow got his orders mixed, sir.” I 
went, and, breaking through a circle of grinning 
men, I found an indignant chief cook standing in 
front of a rifle held by a small boy, who sternly re¬ 
fused to allow “ any person whomsoever ” to enter 
the tent in order to get the bacon, beans, and flour 
for the dinner of the men. 

There was not much trouble in straightening out 
the affair. I explained to Francisco what his 
orders should have been, and pacified the cook. 
After all, there was plenty of time before dinner 
58 


FRANCISCO 


need be ready. When I returned to my tent I 
found the captain waiting there for me. 

" Pm afraid I’ll have to get you to go up and see 
that old Spanish couple that Francisco was talking 
about,” said he, as I came up. “I believe his 
story, of course, but it’s only common justice that 
it should be verified. Take twenty men and put 
them in two wagons, and go on horseback yourself. 
That’ll save time. The doctor can go in the am¬ 
bulance. ” 

“The doctor?” I repeated. 

“Yes, the doctor,” said the captain irritably. 
“You can’t tell but what those people have some¬ 
thing contagious that’ll endanger the men. And 
take some food from our mess. They may be 
starving, for all you know.” He almost slunk 
away as he finished speaking. The captain was 
one of those men who are always ashamed when 
they are caught doing a kindness for any one. 
And he was forever being caught. 

In an army post there is little time wasted in 
saddling and harnessing, and in a few minutes the 
two wagons and the ambulance were on their way 
to the hacienda where we had first seen Francisco. 
There was no need to verify the story—it verified 
itself; we saw that as soon as we arrived. The 
old Spaniard was lying on a pile of straw—the 
only bed left to him—utterly helpless from rheu¬ 
matism, tended by his wife, who was hardly less 
59 


FRANCISCO 


helpless than he from the terrible “ dolor de cabeza ” 
—the headache—that comes in that country from 
insufficient food, and which never leaves its vic¬ 
tims while life remains. Francisco’s gifts were 
all the two old people had to live upon. Even the 
little presents of live stock that the men had given 
him from time to time—chickens, ducks, and a 
turkey—were all there, each one neatly tethered 
by one leg to a peg driven in the ground in order 
that the creature might more easily be caught by 
the feeble hands of the old woman. 

When we were going away I rather think the 
men left the old couple most of the remnants of 
their scanty pay. The good-natured doctor shook 
his head when we got outside the house. 

“There’s very little for me to do,” said he. 
“I’ll try and get the man into a hospital and see 
that they both have food, and that’s about all.” 

What the doctor said to the captain about Fran¬ 
cisco I did not hear, but it must have been very 
high praise indeed. “He couldn’t say enough 
about what the boy did for that Spaniard and his 
wife,” said the captain to me afterward. “You 
may remember that I said from the first that he 
was a good boy. But I didn’t think there was a 
sneak in the company such as this man Jones has 
turned out to be. Well, at any rate he won’t 
trouble us any more for some time to come.” 


60 


FRANCISCO 


PART III. 

When the captain implied that Jones would 
soon be tried by court-martial and sent to prison, 
he was mistaken. No charges against him were 
ever preferred. Indeed, for a time we quite forgot 
him and his case, for a much more important mat¬ 
ter took up all the mind we had to spare. 

On the morning of the day that Francisco was 
on guard a troop of cavalry clattered up the road 
past our camp. They were evidently not out for 
horse exercise or drill, for every horse carried be¬ 
sides its owner the full campaign equipment. It 
might have been a practise march, and, languidly 
interested, our men watched for them to return; but 
they did not return. Instead, another troop fol¬ 
lowed the first. One of the troopers, in response 
to an inquiry from a man of our company who hap¬ 
pened to be passing along the road, said that all 
available forces were to be sent against the Span¬ 
iards, who, after having surrendered the city of 
Ponce, had retreated and were strongly entrenched 
in the hills some distance inland. 

The trooper passed on, and the man to whom he 
had spoken started on a run for the camp. In an 
incredibly short time every one had heard the 
news, and a hundred rumors, each less reliable 
than the one that preceded it, were chasing each 
other from mouth to mouth. 

61 


FRANCISCO 


Fresh bodies of troops came by in rapid succes¬ 
sion—more cavalry, and infantry which every now 
and then had to scramble to the side of the road to 
allow the big field-guns to pass, and which cheered 
them as they rumbled along the smooth macadam. 
Then the guard was turned out for our brigade 
commander, who stopped at our camp for a few 
minutes and told our captain to hold himself in 
readiness to move at a moment’s notice, then jin¬ 
gled on with his staff. 

Before the general came the spirits of the men 
had been steadily sinking. Every one else seemed 
to be going to the front, and they feared that we 
were to be left behind. But after this visit the 
drooping spirits rose as tho by magic—for the time. 
The cheering news flew round the camp, reaching 
even to the guard-house, where Jones was awaiting 
his trial, and one or two other men were confined 
for minor offenses. Then the prisoners sent a 
message to the captain, imploring him to release 
them for a time, at least, in order that they might 
take their part in the battle which they thought 
was to come. Without hesitation the captain gave 
orders for the release of the minor prisoners; but 
about Jones he hesitated for some time, and finally 
sent for the man. 

“I’m not going over again the story of what 
you’ve done,” he said when Jones was brought be¬ 
fore him, “ and I don’t want to hear any arguments 


FRANCISCO 


or excuses. You’ve asked for a chance to retrieve 
yourself, and I’ve decided to give it to you. What 
I shall do with you later I don’t know. It may 
depend on yourself. Now go to Sergeant Clancy 
and get your accouterments.” 

“Thank you, captain,” said Jones, saluting. 
He hesitated a moment, and then added, “ You 
won’t regret it, sir. I’m really not so bad a man 
when I haven’t the drink, and I’m through with 
that now.” That Jones would drink no more was 
very much doubted. We had heard men say that 
same thing many times before. But at all events he 
began at once to attend to his somewhat neglected 
accouterments and to inquire eagerly for the latest 
news. 

He got plenty of news, such as it was, and all of 
the most depressing variety, for once more the 
spirits of the company were ebbing. They went 
down all night, reaching the low-water mark at 
breakfast-time the next morning, when our own 
regiment, with shouts and chaff, went by and left 
us behind. 

Ten minutes later a mounted orderly galloped up, 
handed a paper to the captain, and hurried away. 

“ We are ordered to escort a wagon-train that 
will be along here directly,” said the captain to me, 
after reading the despatch. “ I suppose there was 
no cavalry at hand. Sergeant, let the assembly be 
sounded at once, and then the general.” 

63 


FRANCISCO 


The “ assembly ” was unnecessary; the men 
were already gathered. The tents came down 
when the “ general ” rang out as tho a cyclone had 
passed over the camp. Thanks to the warning 
order of the brigadier-general, there was little to 
do, and by the time the train appeared, a few 
minutes later, we were ready and waiting for it. 
After reporting to the quartermaster in charge, the 
captain disposed the men to his liking; then, with 
straining harness and shouting negro teamsters, 
the wagons creaked away up the long white road. 

Along the line of men a ripple of conversation 
and laughter extended from the head of the train 
to the rear-guard, which marched many yards be¬ 
hind it. Francisco formed part of this rear-guard, 
and with him went Borinquen. When we started 
the goat had been tied to an axle of one of the 
wagons, but was immediately liberated by his 
master. “ He can fight as well as any one,” Fran¬ 
cisco said, “ and it would break his heart if he 
were tied up and had no chance. He is as good 
an American as I, and is just as anxious to drive 
the Spaniards out of the island.” That Borinquen 
could fight, none of us, the first sergeant least of 
all, doubted for a moment. The goat himself 
seemed to feel that he might soon be called on to 
show his prowess; and, probably fearing that he 
might be a little rusty in this accomplishment of 
his, showed a decided tendency to practise on 
64 


FRANCISCO 


everybody and everything not connected with M 
Company that he met. 

Mile after mile was slowly passed. Thru the 
little town of Coto, shortly to be burned by the 
Puerto Ricans themselves; thru the many fords 
and the toy-like city of Juana Diaz, we went. All 
along the route those natives who had not run 
away to hide in the mountains thronged the side 
of the road, offering queer, indigestible dainties to 
the “ Americanos ” as they went by. 

Soon we began to pass other bodies of troops, 
halted and in bivouac here and there, and to ex¬ 
change with them volleys of good-humored chaff. 
Our train carried provisions and ammunition, and 
therefore we were welcome in anticipation of the 
need for our stores. 

Wagon after wagon was detached as we went, 
until at last but three were left. A few men were 
left to guard these, and the rest of the company 
sent on to rejoin the regiment. Among these few 
men was Francisco. It seemed the best method 
that presented itself of keeping him out of danger. 
I was sorry when I gave him the order to stay be¬ 
hind, his disappointment was so evident. Still, he 
was far too good a soldier to demur. 

Our plans concerning this youth were, however, 
not carried out. When we reached the place where 
our regiment was camped it was very late, and the 
tired men dropped in their places and slept like 
5 65 


FRANCISCO 


logs. When we were awakened by reveille the 
next morning, the men who had been left behind 
and Francisco were among the first we saw. They 
had been relieved shortly after we left, and had 
followed us to the camp. 

The regiment was greedily devouring its frugal 
breakfast of canned corned beef and hardtack 
when the distant boom of a heavy gun caused it to 
stop eating and listen. Then a bugle blew, so far 
away that we could hardly hear it, and others 
joined in the chorus. “Ate everything you can, 
me boys, an’ don’t lose no time about it. There’s 
no tellin’ when you’ll get another chance,” said 
Sergeant Clancy. The advice was good, and most 
of the men followed it; but some of them, too 
much excited to eat, replaced the food in their hav¬ 
ersacks and began nervously to fumble with their 
equipment, putting on their belts or altering the 
length of their blanket-bag slings. A few minutes 
later the regiment fell into a long, double line be¬ 
side the road, and waited, it seemed to me, for 
hours. 

The artillery-fire increased; the distant guns, 
which we supposed to be those of the Spaniards, 
were more than answered by heavier reports, near¬ 
er, tho still distant, which we thought—rightly, 
as it turned out—must come from our own artillery. 
Leaving off the heavy packs, the regiment was 
started up the road, halted, moved again, and halt- 
66 


FKANCISCO 


ed once more. The artillery was nearer now, and 
for the first time we heard the faint popping of a 
desultory rifle-fire. Francisco gave a little cry of 
delight, and laying one hand on the arm of the 
man who stood next to him, with the other he 
pointed into the air. I looked. There was a 
slight puff of pearly smoke, which vanished almost 
instantly. Something screamed thru the air and 
ripped the thatch side of a native hut which stood 
near. Then followed a dull, muffled report. 
“ That there was a shell,” observed one of the men. 

“ What a bright, promisin' young man you are, 
Bayliss, to find that out all by yourself, " said the 
first sergeant in reply. “You're right. It was a 
shell. An' you'll see more of 'em if you're lucky 
enough to live thru this day.'' The suggestion of 
this remark was not cheerful. In spite of himself, 
Bayliss shuddered a little; and then, by way of 
concealing it, he translated what the sergeant had 
said to Francisco, adding some touches of his own. 
Certainly I could not see that the speech caused 
Francisco any uneasiness. Probably he understood 
very little of the bad Spanish in which it was 
spoken, for he seemed rather amused than other¬ 
wise. Nevertheless this was the signal for all the 
men who stood near the boy to commence once 
more their old jokes about his weeping two days 
before. This was the only thing that they teased 
him about that he minded. And he certainly did 
67 


FRANCISCO 


mind this. Before long he was winking hard to 
keep back tears which he would rather die than to 
have appear. “ Indeed it was not because I feared 
that I wept,” he said pleadingly. “ It was because 
my honor was touched, and for no other reason. 
You should know that.” 

I thought that the chaff had gone on far enough, 
and Sergeant Clancy evidently came to the same 
conclusion at the same time. “ Shut up, you 
men,” said he. “Ye’re tellin’ the boy here that 
he’s a coward so’s not to show the white fear ye’re 
in yerselves. I s’pose, now, that Bayliss, that 
brilliant youth, will be tellin’ us that the noise we’re 
a-hearin’ is the rifles of our men—most likely that 
Brooklyn cavalry what just went up, dismounted, 
an’ I wouldn’t wonder but what he’d add that the 
next turn might come our way, if he only knowed 
enough to think of it.” 

If Bayliss had “ knowed enough to think of it ” 
he would have been entirely correct. Our bugles 
and those of L Company brought us into column 
and started us up the road. As the senior officer, 
my captain commanded both companies, and I, 
therefore, was left in charge of M. The rest of 
the regiment, as we filed by it, greeted us with 
volleys of rough jokes, mainly directed at Fran¬ 
cisco, who marched, erect and joyful, in the line of 
file-closers. No soldier ever went into action more 
gladly than did Francisco that day. 

68 


FRANCISCO 


We were hurried up the military road, past wait' 
ing wagon-trains, detachments of troops, and all 
the impedimenta that congregate in the rear of 
even a small army. In one spot, shaded and grassy, 
a table had been placed, and around it stood men 
in oil-cloth aprons who wore red crosses on their 
arms. Thus far these men had little to do—it was 
too early; but soon we met a man, here and there, 
limping toward them, and some helped or carried 
by comrades. But even without them the prepar¬ 
ation under the trees, there, had rather a sobering 
effect on those who saw it. Somehow it looked so 
very earnest. 

We were halted for a moment, and a mounted 
officer iode up and gave some order to the captain, 
who saluted, and, drawing his sword, turned toward 
us. A vicious hiss over our heads made us all 
duck. A moment later a puff of white dust flew 
up from the road, and we realized that it was a 
stray Mauser bullet that had glanced by the hard 
macadam and went singing away into space. 

“ Attention! Double time—march! ” called the 
captain. The bugles repeated the command, and 
the four hundred feet pounded the road with quick 
beats. Another road, passing thru a valley, 
stopped at the farther end by steep hills and car¬ 
peted with young sugar-cane, led away at right 
angles from the one on which he had been traveling, 
and up this road we were turned. More bullets 
69 


FRANCISCO 


hissed over our heads, kicked up puffs of dust, or 
tore thru the cane. These were not stray bullets. 
A sustained fire came from somewhere at the head 
of the valley, but from just what point we could 
not tell. In spite of the officers’ efforts the pace 
quickened until it was almost a run; yet the ca¬ 
dence was unbroken. One of the men gave a little 
scream of surprise and caught at his arm, then 
laughed apologetically. It was only a graze, and 
he never lost step. 

The bullets began to fly more thickly. As he 
trotted along, the captain kept looking over his left 
shoulder at the bald, round top of a hill near the 
road we had left. Soon he apparently found what 
he sought. “Fours right! Halt! Lie down!” 
came the orders in quick succession. We obeyed 
with our bodies before our minds had time to act, 
and found ourselves in a ditch beside the road with 
the bullets hissing in harmless spite over our heads. 

Here we waited. It was agonizing work, that 
waiting, especially for the officers, who had to walk 
up and down in an unconcerned sort of way to give 
confidence to the men. This uneasiness was not 
shared by Francisco. A speck of dust had insinu¬ 
ated itself into the breech of his rifle, and extract¬ 
ing a rag from his pocket, he rubbed the offending 
place as busily as tho he were in camp, and with 
as much unconcern. The only other person who 
did not seem to mind the bullets that were whiz- 
70 


FKANCISCO 


zing by was our captain, who stood with his field- 
glasses fixed on the round-topped hill. Presently a 
pigmy figure appeared there, bearing a red-and- 
white flag, which it wagged vigorously for a 
while from side to side, and then stopped. The 
captain put away his field-glasses. 

“ Deploy your men on the right of the road and 
advance, ” he said to me, and then left to give simi¬ 
lar orders, relating to the other side of the road, 
to the commander of L Company. In a moment 
the bugles blew the signal to rise. The men 
sprang to their feet with a cheer, and, running 
hard, formed as skirmishers in a line which 
stretched across the valley, and which began slowly 
to sweep along its length. The bullets did not so 
much trouble us now. The noise made by the 
men as they crashed thru the cane drowned their 
shrill voices. One man in front of me threw up his 
hands, staggered, and fell. His place was instant¬ 
ly taken by Francisco, who scuttled between the 
close-growing cane-stalks as a rabbit might have 
done. 

“ Halt! Lie down! ” sang the bugles once more. 
The cane had come to an end; beyond was open 
pasture-land, and we had been stopped just before 
we would have broken from our cover. With some 
trouble we could see between cane-stalks the hills 
which closed the end of the valley, their sides 
scarred by raw lines of fresh earth thrown up to 
71 


FRANCISCO 


make the Spanish trenches. On these lines of 
earth swarmed little brown men in uniforms of 
blue-and-white cotton that looked like bed-ticking. 
Their fire had ceased; they had lost us, and had 
apparently come out to see, if possible, where we 
were. 

“ Fire at will—commence firing! ” said our bu¬ 
gles. The shadow of the cane sparkled with 
flashes, and the reports rattled to the hills, which 
threw them back at us. In an instant the bank of 
new earth was empty. Every man had dropped 
into the trenches as a prairie-dog bobs into its hole. 
A volley crashed from their line, but the shots flew 
wild. Ours did not: we could see the earth fly. 

Our bugles then spoke to us again, and said sev¬ 
eral things. In obedience to their command, the 
firing, with a belated shot or two, stopped; the 
bayonets rattled as they were snapped in place; 
the men rose, and, trembling with suppressed ex¬ 
citement, trotted out across the plain. Volley af¬ 
ter volley crashed from the trenches; here and 
there a man fell, and our pace quickened some¬ 
what. 

“Steady, there—steady! Keep that line 
dressed!” called our captain warningly. Then, as 
we had nearly reached the foot of the hill, he 
barked forth one word—“ Charge! ” 

With a yell that drowned the reports of the 
rifles our two companies darted forward at top 
72 


FRANCISCO 


speed. The next moment we were clinging to the 
steep hillside on to which our impetus had car¬ 
ried us; scrambling and climbing, slipping back 
and dodging rolling stones, until we reached the 
trenches and tumbled into them. They were emp¬ 
ty. Not a Spaniard, dead or alive, remained. 

For a moment the men were silent in blank 
amazement; then a great roar of laughter swept 
down the line. It was an impulse caused, I think, 
by the relief they felt. A moment later there was 
a fresh roar as Francisco, who had been distanced 
in the charge, came scrambling fiercely up the hill, 
the hot barrel of his rifle clutched tightly in one 
little brown hand. The laughter did not last long. 
A volley, well meant but badly directed, rang from 
a coffee-plantation higher on the hill, sending our 
men out of the trenches as quickly as the Span¬ 
iards had dropped into them. The enemy had not 
retreated far. 

“ Lie down! Drop! ” roared our captain as 
soon as the men had cleared the bank of earth in 
front of the trench. The company officers echoed 
him, and most of the men obeyed, snuggling them¬ 
selves under the shelter of the earthwork. Some 
of the younger soldiers had reached the bottom of 
the hill, and had to climb up again. 

The firing, which had been high, lowered until a 
haze of dust hung over the top of the bank, kicked 
up by the bullets that lodged there. Then it slack- 
73 


FRANCISCO 


ened somewhat. “Xo firing!" called our captain 
to the other officers. “ You don’t know where the 
enemy is. Wait till we locate him.” He climbed 
to the top of the bank, unbuckling the case of his 
field-glasses. Suddenly he stumbled and lurched 
forward, throwing up one hand in a vain attempt 
to regain his balance. Two of the prostrate figures 
lying under the bank rose and darted forward to 
assist him. One of them grasped at his upraised 
hand. A ragged chorus of shots rang out from the 
plantation; the man straightened, then collapsed, 
and all three fell heavily into the trench. 

It was all over in an instant. I was too far 
away to assist. All I could do was to give the 
enemy something to think about in hope that no 
more shots would be fired at the three until we 
could get them in. I frantically shrieked the or¬ 
der to commence firing from the magazines, and 
the commander of L Company, tho my superior, 
repeated it. 

Never was an order obeyed more promptly. 
Practised hands pumped the repeating-rifles; the 
shots sounded like the roll of a drum, and the 
young coffee-trees bent and swayed as tho a wind 
tossed their branches. Such a fire could last only 
for a moment, but before it had time to slacken a 
shell flew screaming among the coffee-trees and 
burst there, and an echoing roar came from one of 
the side hills. Then I knew that the artillery 
74 


FRANCISCO 


had come up, and as far as we were concerned the 
battle was over. 

A dozen men jumped on to the embankment in 
time to see the captain rise to his feet, and then, 
with a groan, sit down again. “I’m not hit,” he 
said. “I fell, and I think I’ve sprained my 
ankle. Somebody lift out these men. I’m afraid 
they’re hurt. Why, that’s Francisco! ” 

It was indeed Francisco, lying face downward in 
a huddled heap on the body of a soldier—his rifle 
still grasped in his hand. The first sergeant 
stooped and tenderly lifted him; then stood look¬ 
ing at the man who lay at his feet. The boy’s 
body had concealed thfe lifeless face of Jones. 

“ Heaven rest him, ” said Sergeant Clancy, “ for 
he died like a man!” 

“It’s only a scratch on the thigh,” said the sur¬ 
geon, when he had carried Francisco to the place 
under the trees where he had elected to do his 
work. “ It’s only a scratch on the thigh. I sup¬ 
pose the fall stunned him; but I’m much mistaken, 
captain, if he isn’t walking about on that leg of his 
before you can use your ankle. He’ll come to in 
a minute. He’s coming to now.” 

As the doctor spoke Francisco opened his eyes, 
and they happened to fall upon me. “ I hope that 
now the men will no longer think me a coward, 
Senor el Teniente,” said he. “ I tried to behave as 
a soldier should. I wish always to do that.” 

75 


FRANCISCO 


I certainly did not think Francisco a coward, 
and had never thought so; but before I could an¬ 
swer him the captain spoke. 

“ If you would learn to be a good soldier, Fran¬ 
cisco, you should go to the United States, and to 
school, and there learn to speak English, and many 
other things besides. Would you like to?” 

“ Seilor, ” answered Francisco, “ save that it 
would prevent my going, I would die for it. ” 

“ Then you shall go,” said the captain. With a 
smile of the utmost beatitude, Francisco turned 
away his head and, closing his eyes, lay still. 

“Did you really mean that?” asked the sur¬ 
geon, looking up, amused, from the bandage he 
was wrapping around the captain’s ankle. The 
surgeon was not as busy as we feared he would be 
when we saw him before the battle. 

“ Of course I mean it, ” replied the captain some¬ 
what testily, for his ankle hurt him. “Didn’t you 
hear me say so? When the regiment’s ordered 
home that boy shall go with it.” 

And he kept his word. 


76 


The Taper 


By 

Count Leo Tolstoy 


77 




THE TAPER* 


It was in the time of the lords. There were 
different kinds of lords. There were those who 
did not forget that there is a God, that some day 
they must die; and these did no wrong to men. 
.There were others who were dogs—may God have 
mercy on them! But there were no worse chiefs 
than the old serfs come up out of the mud and be¬ 
come chiefs in their turn. These, above all, made 
the life of the poor people hard. 

In a certain manor there was a certain manager. 
The peasants did their tasks. The lands were 
extensive and good, and there were water-courses, 
fields, and forests. There should have been enough 
for everybody, the manor, and its muzhiks. But 
the proprietor had chosen a manager from among 
the domestics of one of his other estates. 

This manager at once assumed all authority, and 
pressed with all his weight on the backs of the 
muzhiks. He had a family—a wife and two mar¬ 
ried daughters—and had already amassed consid- 

* Translated from the French by Kate Rohrer Cain. 

79 


THE TAPER 


erable money. He should have been able to live, 
and to live without wrong-doing; but he was in¬ 
satiable, and already hardened in evil. He began 
by setting unreasonable tasks for the muzhiks. 
He had a brick-yard made, and made everybody 
work for him, men and women. Then he sold the 
bricks for his profit. The muzhiks went to Mos¬ 
cow to complain to the lord, but nothing was done 
about it. The lord sent them back, and let the 
manager do as he pleased. The latter found out 
that the muzhiks had made a complaint, and he 
wanted revenge. The life of the peasants became 
harder than ever. Among them were false breth¬ 
ren who denounced their comrades and strove to 
injure one another. The people were uneasy, and 
the manager’s anger increased. 

As time went on, things grew worse. They 
began to hate the manager as a wild beast. When 
he went into town, people shunned him as they 
would a wolf, hiding, no matter where, to get out 
of his sight. The manager perceived this, and the 
fear he inspired irritated him the more. 

In time such monsters are always cut off. The 
muzhiks gathered together often in some corner, 
and the boldest would say: “ Shall we longer en¬ 
dure our oppressor? To be the death of such a 
creature is no sin.” 

One day, before Holy Week, they held a meet¬ 
ing in the woods, where the manager had sent 
80 


THE TAPER 


them to trim the trees. The time drew near when 
they might eat and feel at ease. 

“How to exist now,” they said, “is the ques¬ 
tion. He oppresses us grievously. We are har¬ 
assed. There is no rest, day or night, for us or 
our wives. And even now he is not satisfied. 
And the lash! , Simeon is dead under the lash. 
Anissim perished in the stocks. What are we 
waiting for? He will come again this evening, 
and persecute us merely for his pleasure. We 
have only to pull him off his horse and give him 
a blow of the ax, and that is enough. We’ll bury 
him like a dog, and the water will flow over him. 
Only let us understand one another well. All 
hold firm. There must be no disloyalty! ” 

Thus spoke Wassili Minaer. He was more set 
against the manager than the rest. The oppressor 
whipped Wassili every week, and he had taken 
Wassili’s wife to be his cook. 

So the muzhiks plotted till he arrived. Soon 
he appeared on horseback, and began to find fault 
with the workmen because they had not cut the 
trees as he wanted them. Among the heap of cut 
branches he discovered a little linden. 

“I didn’t order the lindens cut!” cried he. 
“ Who did it? Own up, or I’ll whip every one 
of you! ” 

Then he tried to find to what row the cut linden 
belonged. Gidor was denounced as the culprit. 

6 81 


THE TAPER 


The manager bruised his face till the blood came. 
Then he did the same thing to Wassili on the pre¬ 
text that his heap was not big enough; and then 
he left. 

In the evening the peasants reassembled, and 
Wassili spoke: 

“ See here, all of you. You are not men, but 
sparrows. We’ll settle his account for him, you 
say; and when the time comes you back out. Just 
like a lot of sparrows against a sparrow-hawk. 
‘No cowardice, no disloyalty!’ And when he 
comes nobody breathes. And then the sparrow- 
hawk seizes what he wants and bears it off. 
Who’s missing? Ivan. So much the worse, it’s 
all right. Just like you. When he was doing up 
Gidor that was the time to set upon him and finish 
him. But you! ‘No cowardice, no defection!’ 
And when he came,.everybody bent his head.” 

The faultfinding became more and more frequent, 
and the muzhiks swore to get rid of the manager. 
He gave out work during the holidays. This order 
irritated the peasants extremely. They assembled 
at Wassili’s house in Passion Week, and again 
deliberated. 

“ If he has forgotten God, ” they said, “ we ought 
to kill him for good. We ourselves shall die if we 
don’t do it.” 

Pierre Mikheer came also. He was a timid 
man, was Pierre Mikheer, and he did not like to 
82 


THE TAPER 


mix in discussions. He came, nevertheless, and 
said: “ What you think of, my brothers, is a great 
sin. To lose one’s own soul is a serious thing. It 
is easy to lose the soul of another; but how shall 
he find it himself? Does he do wrong? The 
wrong remains with him. It must be borne, my 
brethren.” 

At these words, Wassili became angry. 

“ He goes over the same thing, always, this fel¬ 
low, that it is a sin to kill a man! Of course, but 
what man? It is a crime to kill a good one; but 
such a dog! Even God wishes it. You have to 
kill mad dogs if you have any pity on men. It 
would be a greater sin not to kill him. How 
many more men will he make suffer if he is let 
alone! And for us, if we have to pay for his 
death, we shall suffer for others, and they will be 
grateful to us. You talk nonsense, Mikheer. 
Will it be less a sin to work during Easter than 
to kill him? You are not going to work, are 
you?” 

Mikheer answered: “And why not? If I am 
sent I shall work. It is not for myself that 1 
work, and God will know whose is the sin. Only 
we must not forget. It is not I who speak thus, 
my brethren. If it were said that evil should be 
combated with evil, God would have proclaimed 
it; but the contrary is laid down. He that taketh 
the sword shall perish with the sword. To kill a 
83 


THE TAPER 


man is an easy thing; but the blood will stain your 
soul. To kill a man is to dye your soul with blood. 
You think to put evil out of the way by killing a 
wicked man. You will charge your conscience 
with a greater evil. Endure the misfortune, and 
you vanquish it.” 

After this the muzhiks took no resolution. 
Counsel was divided. Some thought with Was- 
sili; the others ranged themselves on the side of 
Pierre, to commit no sin, and endure. The first 
day, Sunday, the manager let the peasants observe 
the f§te. But the starost [a representative of the 
peasants named by themselves] came in the eve¬ 
ning, and said: “ Mikhail Simenovitch, the man¬ 
ager, orders that everybody go to work to-morrow.” 

The starost went thru all the village, announ¬ 
cing the work for the morrow, assigning the fields 
on the other side of the river to some, and those 
along the highway to others. The muzhiks wept, 
but they dared not disobey. 

The next day they got out their plows and went 
to work. The church bells rang for mass, and 
everybody kept the f§te but the muzhiks. They 
worked. 

Mikhail Simenovitch, the manager, rose late and 
made a tour of the fields. His wife and his wid¬ 
owed daughter dressed themselves, and went to 
mass. They returned, and a servant prepared the 
84 


THE TAPER 


samovar. Mikhail Simenovitch returned also, and 
they all sat down to take tea. After tea, the man¬ 
ager lit his pipe, and had the starost called. 

“ Well, have you put the muzhiks to work?” 

“Yes, Mikhail Simenovitch.” 

“Is everybody there?” 

“Everybody is there. I led them myself.” 

“Keep at it! Keep at it! Do they work? Go 
see, and tell them I’ll be there after dinner. They 
must do a measure of double rows, and do it well. 
If I find bad work, I’ll not promise what will 
happen.” 

“Yes, they understand.” 

The starost was about to leave, when Mikhail 
Simenovitch called him back. He wanted to say 
something more, but felt embarrassed about say¬ 
ing it. He did not know just how to begin. 

Finally it came out, “Listen well,” he said, “to 
what these ruffians say of me. Find out who 
threaten, and what they say. Report all to me. 
I know them, the rascals. They don’t want to 
work. They would like to stay in bed all the 
time, and do nothing. To eat and make merry— 
that’s what they would like. Then, listen to their 
chatter, and bring it all to me. I must know. 
Go along, now, and hide nothing on me.” 

The starost left, and went to the fields toward 
the muzhiks. The manager’s wife had heard the 
conversation between the starost and her husband. 

85 


THE TAPER 


She was a gentle woman, with a good heart. 
When she could, she calmed her husband and took 
the part of the peasants with him. 

How she approached near to her husband, and 
made a request. 

“My dear Michenka,” she pleaded, “for the 
great day, for the sake of the f§te of Our Lord, 
do not sin, and, in the name of Christ, do not make 
the muzhiks work.” 

But Mikhail took no heed of his wife’s words, 
and laughed in her face. “ Is it then so long since 
the switch promenaded over your shoulders that 
you have become so bold? This is none of your 
business.” 

“ Michenka, my dear, I have had a dream about 
you,—a bad dream. Listen to me. Don’t make 
the muzhiks work.” 

“ It may be that you are too fat, and you think 
the cat-o’nine tails will not lash. Take care! take 
care! ” 

He was angry, was Simenovitch. He thrust his 
lighted pipe almost into his wife’s mouth, and 
sent her away, ordering her to have dinner served. 

Mikhail Simenovitch ate stew, and pie, chtchi an 
pore [a kind of soup made of cabbage and beets], 
pig roasted in milk, a soup of meat and milk. He 
drank cherry brandy, and ended with a sweet cake. 
Then he called the cook, and ordered her to sing, 
while he accompanied her on the guitar. 

86 


THE TAPEE 


Thus gayly did Mikhail Simenovitch pass the 
time, twanging his guitar and idling with the cook. 
Presently the starost entered, saluted, and made 
his report. “ Well,” asked the manager, “do they 
work? Will they get through their task? ” 

“They are already half done.” 

“Is it well done?” 

“Yes, I saw nothing wrong. They are afraid.” 

“Does the ground open up well?” 

“Yes, very well. It powders up like poppy 
seed.” 

The manager was silent a moment. “ And what 
do they say about me?” he asked. “Do they 
abuse me? ” 

The starost seemed embarrassed. But Mikhail 
Simenovitch ordered him to speak the whole truth. 
“Don’t be afraid. They are not your words you 
speak, but theirs. If you tell the truth, I will 
reward you; if you conceal anything, I will whip 
you. Here, Ketucha! Give him a glass of brandy 
to brace him up.” 

The cook brought the brandy to the starost. 
He offered a toast, drank the contents of the glass, 
and wiped his beard. “ No matter, ” thought he; 
“no matter if they don’t speak well of him; I’ll 
tell him the truth if he wants it.” So he be¬ 
gan: 

“They complain, Mikhail Simenovitch, they 
complain.” 


87 


THE TAPER 


“But what do they say? Speak out! ” 

“They say that he does not believe in God.” 
The manager burst out laughing. 

“ Who said that? ” 

“ Everybody. They say, moreover, that he has 
dealings with the devil.” 

The manager fairly split his sides laughing. 

“That’s good. But tell me in detail. Who 
talks like that? What does Wassili say?” 

The starost did not like to speak ill of his com¬ 
rades ; but for a long time there had been a misun¬ 
derstanding between him and Wassili. 

“ Wassili bawls louder than the rest.” 

“ But what does he say? Speak out! ” 

“ I am afraid to repeat it. He says that he will 
not escape the death of the impenitent.” 

“Ah, bravo! Very well, then, why does he 
wait and not kill me, then? Are his arms too 
short? Yery well for you, Wassili, you’ll get 
your settlement. And Tichka, the dog, also. 
What does he say?” 

“ Everybody speaks evil. ” 

“But what do they say?” 

“ It is wrong to repeat it.” 

“What’s wrong? Have courage. Speak!” 

“ But they say: May his belly burst and all his 
entrails come out.” 

Mikhail Simenovitch then became very merry 
indeed. 


THE TAPEB 


“ We’ll see whose entrails come out first. Who 
was it said that? Tichka? ” 

“But nobody speaks well; all speak ill, and 
threaten.” 

“Very well; and Pierre Mikheer. What does 
he say? He curses me too, I hope?” 

“No, Mikhail Simenovitch, Pierre does not 
curse. ” 

“ And what does he do? ” 

“ He is the only one of them all who says noth¬ 
ing. He is stranger. I have looked at him with 
much surprise, Mikhail Simenovitch.” 

“And why?” 

“ All the muzhiks are astonished at his conduct.” 

“ But what does he do? ” 

“ It is something altogether extraordinary. As 
I approached he was working on a measure across 
near the Tourkine. I drew near him, and I heard 
him singing in a voice so sweet, so pleasant! And 
something was burning on his plow.” 

“ Well?” 

“ It burned like a little fire. I went close, and 
I saw a five-kopek taper stuck in his plow. The 
taper burned, and the wind did not put it out. 
And he, in a new shirt, worked and sang psalms. 
Tho he turned and moved his plow, the taper did 
not go out. He shook it before me, and changed 
the share, and still the taper did not go out.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” 

89 


THE TAPER 


“Nothing. Only, when he saw me, he wished 
me the joy of the season, and went on singing.” 

“ Did you talk with him ? ” 

“No. But the muzhiks came up, and they 
laughed. ‘ Look there, ’ they said; ‘ Mikheer can 
never pray enough for the pardon of his work in 
Holy Week.’ ” 

“ And what did he answer? ” 

“ Only one thing: ‘ Peace on earth to men of 
good will!' He drew his plow, called to his 
horse, and went on singing. And the taper burned 
all the time.” 


The manager did not laugh any more. He let 
go his guitar, dropped his head on his breast, and 
remained buried in thought. 

For some time he remained thus absorbed. 
Then he dismissed the cook and the starost, passed 
behind the screen, threw himself on his bed, and 
sighed and groaned like the passing of a hay- 
wagon. 

His wife drew near, wishing to comfort him. 
He did not answer her, but only said: “ He has 
conquered me.” 

“What!” said she. “You have done many 
other things and you never had this fear. Why 
are you afraid now? ” 

“I am lost,” he replied; “he has overcome me. 

90 



THE TAPER 


Go away, I haven’t killed you. This is nothing 
to you.” And he did not rise. 

The next day, however, he got up and under¬ 
took to live as before; but it was not the same 
Mikhail Simenovitch. It seemed he had a pre¬ 
sentiment of something. He drooped, and hardly 
went out at all. He did not rule much longer. 
The lord came soon, and asked for him. “The 
manager is sick,” it was reported. The next day 
he was still sick. The lord learned that he drank, 
and then he took the management away from him. 

Then Mikhail Simenovitch did nothing, fretted 
more, became dirty, drank everything he had, and 
fell so low that he stole his wife’s clothes and took 
them to the drinking-house. The muzhiks them¬ 
selves pitied him and gave him to drink. 

At the end of a year he died, killed by drink. 


91 




How Viardeau Obeyed 
the Black Abb6 

By 

Charles G. D. Roberts 


Illustrations 

By 

E. W. Deming 


[Reprinted by permission of the author .] 


93 
































































































































































































































* 

t • 




















































The council fire. 












HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED THE 
BLACK ABBfi 


The time was night, of the 23d of December, 
1754. The place was a spruce-forest in old Aca- 
die, or —as its new masters, the English, had re¬ 
christened it—Nova Scotia. 

The encampment was in the deep snow of the 
Acadian winter. Nowhere else did the straight 
trunks of the ancient spruce and fir trees shoot up 
so gigantically as here. In the fitful red illumi¬ 
nation of the camp-fire they cast goblin shadows 
upon the band of Micmacs, painted savages squat¬ 
ting on their haunches about the blaze. Standing 
very erect, near the fire, was the spare figure of La 
Game, “ The Black Abbe, ” bane of the English, 
terror of the Acadians, shame of the church, but 
idol of his savage flock, the Micmacs of the Shu- 
benacadie. 

The ruddy light, falling upon his face as he 
gazed into the fire, intensified the harsh and bitter 
lines of the wide, thin mouth and indomitable jaw; 
made more grotesque than fate had planned it the 
95 



HOW VIABDEAU OBEYED 


long, bulb-tipped nose; deepened with abrupt 
shadows the frown of his high, narrow forehead; 
and lit a cruel red spark in the gleam of his close- 
set eyes. Over his coarse, furred leggings and 
stout coat of Acadian homespun, he wore the black 
soutane of that priestly office which he dishonored. 

A few steps back of the half-circle of squatting 
and grunting savages stood Jean Viardeau, leaning 
against a tree, both mittened hands clasped over 
the muzzle of his musket. A short but athletic 
figure, very broad in the shoulders, with stiff black 
curls crowding irrepressibly from under the edge 
of his blue woolen toque, he would have been 
handsome but for the settled cloud of anger on his 
face. He was a man with a grudge. Vengeance 
upon the English was his one thought; and when 
vengeance delayed, resentment deepened. There 
had been, he thought, too much delay in this camp 
among the fir-woods. 

There was no wind. The flame and smoke 
went straight up, toward that far, black hole in 
the forest roof where through two great stars 
sparkled icily. A few feet from the main fire 
was a heap of glowing coals, raked forth for con¬ 
venience in the cooking; and from the unctuous 
sputter of the broiling bear’s meat came a savor 
of richness somewhat rank. 

Suddenly the dark form by the fire turned, and 
strode over to the young Acadian’s side. Viardeau 
96 


THE BLACK ABBfi 


looked up, and a flask of expectancy lightened the 
gloom of his square-jawed face. 

“Work for me to do?” he asked eagerly. 

“ Work for you! ” answered the priest, shutting 
his thin lips, and pausing to eye the young man 
with an atomizing scrutiny before unfolding his 
purpose. 

“ I know, my son, ” he went on in a moment or 
two, “ both your love for France and your right¬ 
eous hatred of the English. We,—I, and you, 
and a few—alas, too few!—faithful and resolute 
like ourselves—are the instruments of vengeance on 
the enemies of our country. You, unlike myself, 
have a personal grudge against them, I believe! ” 

The young man’s eyes flashed, and he opened 
his mouth to speak; but La Game continued: 

“ I think they robbed you of your little patri¬ 
mony. I think, too, your father fell by an Eng¬ 
lish sword, by the banks of the Tantramar. But 
that was years ago, when you were too young to 
remember! ” 

“I remember it as if it had been yesterday! I 
remember my mother’s tears!” exclaimed Viar- 
deau fiercely. 

“ It was long ago, ” went on the Black Abbe, 
“ and it was in fair fight. But of late, I think, 
the English have been kind to you. Is it not so? 
This can not but ease your bitterness against them 
in some measure! ” 

7 


97 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


But none knew better than La Game the fresh 
ness of Jean Viardeau’s injuries, his new rage 
bom as it were yesterday. 

“ Curse them! ” he muttered between clenched 
teeth. “ They have robbed me of my last hope, the 
stay of my mother’s age. My hand is against their 
name and race, while I have strength to lift it up! ” 

“Why, my son, what is this new injury? As 
if you had not suffered enough from the usurper’s 
violence! ” said La Game softly, with a sympa¬ 
thetic wonder in his voice. 

“Did you not hear of it, father?” exclaimed 
Viardeau, husky with the vehemence of his hate. 
“ They seized my schooner, the Belle Marie , with 
all her cargo of barley, flax, and fish bound for 
Louisburg; confiscated them, sold them in Hali¬ 
fax. And there was a fortune for me in that 
cargo, had I got it safe to Louisburg. We es¬ 
caped with but the stuff on our backs,—Louis, 
Tamin, and I!” 

“Then where are Louis and Tamin?” asked the 
Black Abbe. 

“Oh,” cried Jean with angry scorn, “back at 
Grand Pre,—smoking, smoking, talking, talking, 
and watching the pot on the fire. They are tame. 
They are not men. But I—I will strike back! ” 

“ You shall strike at once, and strike hard, my 
son! ” said the Black Abbe. 

“ How?—When?” 


98 


THE BLACK ABBfi 


“ To-night, when you have eaten, ” continued La 
Game, “ you shall take one of my faithful follow¬ 
ers here, and meat enough in your pack for three 
days’ journey, and set out for the Nappan. You 
know the little marsh where the Des Eochers brook 
flows in. On the upland bordering the marsh on 
the south an English settler has built his cabin. 
He has cleared fields. He has dyked in part of 
the marsh. He is prospering. Soon other English 
will come and do likewise, setting a greedy grasp 
upon the lands of our people. They must be dis¬ 
couraged. Terror must seize the souls of any that 
would follow them. You must get there to-mor¬ 
row night, Jean. Hot one of them must see the 
next daybreak. The cabin must be smoke and 
ashes under the next sun. The lesson must be one 
to be read far off. If these robbers will not spare 
our lands for justice, they shall for fear.” 

“Will we two be enough for the fight, father?” 
asked Viardeau. 

“ There will be no fight, my son, ” answered La 
Game coolly. “There is but one Englishman; 
and he will be asleep. It is simple. And I have 
work elsewhere for the rest of these! ” 

“ I should like a fair fight! ” murmured the 
young man doubtfully. “I would see his eyes. 
I would strike him down, and he should know my 
vengeance. I like not stabbing in the dark! ” 

“ So,—it is not only Tamin and Louis,” said La 
99 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


Game with a slow sneer, “who can ‘talk, talk/ 
and ‘ sit by the fire,’ and fear to strike. It is 
enough, Jean Viardeau; you Acadians are not 
men. I have my savages. I will send Sacobi and 
Big Paul. They are men! They-” 

“ You speak in haste, Father La Game! ” broke 
in Viardeau hotly. “ I will not be talked to so. 
And I w r ill go. I meant to go from the first, if 
you had no fighting for me to do. I could do you 
better service in fighting; and your redskins could 
perhaps do better at stabbing in the dark. But I 
go. Give me Sacobi. He’s got more brains than 
the rest, and talks French.” 

Taking no notice whatever of the young man’s 
anger, the Black Abbe coolly summoned Sacobi 
from his place beside the broiling bear’s meat, and 
proceeded to give orders for the conduct of the en¬ 
terprise. Half an hour later Viardeau and his 
redskin companion, slipping their moccasined toes 
under the moose-hide thongs of their snow-shoes, 
turned their backs on the camp-fire and the smells 
of broiled bear’s meat, and struck off into the 
moon-mottled shadows and clean balsamy savors of 
the forest. 

Sacobi was a lean, active savage, a head taller 
than the Acadian, but of slimmer build. Shrewd, 
quick-witted, less reticently monosyllabic than his 
fellows, and at ease in the French tongue, Viar¬ 
deau regarded him as the one Indian fit to hold 
100 


THE BLACK ABBE 


speech with. There was little speech between 
them, however, on that night march. There was 
occupation enough for thought and sense in pick¬ 
ing their path through the misleading shadows. 
When they had marched perhaps three hours, and 
the moon had sunk so low as to bo no longer of 
use to them, they halted, dug a roomy hole in the 
snow with the snow-shoes, built a fire in the center 
of the cleared space, and bivouacked for the night. 

Viardeau was restless, and little in love with his 
undertaking. Hence it came that he slept ill. He 
was not one to set his hand to the plow and look 
back, however ugly might seem to him the furrow 
he was doomed to turn. But he wanted the busi¬ 
ness done quickly. Before dawn he had aroused 
his indifferent comrade, and with the *first flood of 
rose-pink staining the eastern faces of the fir-trees, 
the two were again under way. The snow was 
firmly packed, the snow-shoeing easy; and Viar- 
deau’s bitter impatience brought them out too soon 
upon the edge of the marsh by the Nappan water. 

It was a little after sunset, and the winter night 
was beginning to close in. The channel of the 
Nappan, at half tide and choked with muddy ice- 
cakes, groaned in shadow. But the open clearing 
beside them, with its blackened stumps upthrust 
through mounds and curling drifts of snow, caught 
the last of the daylight. Across this dying pallor 
came a cheery yellow radiance from the windows 
101 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


of the settler’s cabin, set close for shelter under 
the forest-edge at the north side of the clearing. 
Flanked by its wide-eaved log-barn and lean-to 
shed, it made a homely picture in the wilderness; 
and Viardeau’s scowl deepened. 

“Three—four hours, may be,” said the Indian, 
“ before they sleep yonder! ” 

“ Why not tackle him now, and give him a 
chance in fair fight?” growled the Acadian, fin¬ 
gering his musket impatiently. 

“ No fair fight now! ” retorted Sacobi. “ Him 
inside. See us plain. We no see him! All on 
one side! ” 

Viardeau could not but acknowledge the force of 
this; and he knew the nice marksmanship of the 
English settlers. 

“Bien, Sacobi,” he assented reluctantly, “I 
guess that’s so, all right. And there’s only the 
two of us, so we can’t throw ourselves away. But 
I tell you there’s got to be a fair fight. When we 
get the blaze going we’ll wake him up and let him 
come out to take his chance. No knifing in the 
dark for me! ” 

The Indian looked faintly surprised at this sen¬ 
timent; but being a brave man, assented willingly 
enough. As long as the command of the Black 
Abbe was carried out he was content that Viar¬ 
deau, whom he admired, should be suited in the 
manner of it. 


102 


THE BLACK ABBE 


Cautiously Viardeau led the way around the 
skirts of the clearing, and into the dense growth 
of mixed young and old timber which almost 
touched the roofs upon the north. From this post 
of vantage they could survey the situation and lay 
their deadly plans. They commanded a view of 
the front of the cabin, and of a beaten trail run¬ 
ning down the gentle slope from the doorway to 
a narrow opening in the opposite woods. A very 
bright light shone down the trail from the cabin 
windows. 

“ That must be the trail to Des Bochers village, ” 
whispered Viardeau. 

The savage grunted assent; and then muttered: 

“ Why make so great light? ” 

“ It is the eve of Noel, you know! ” answered 
the Acadian with some surprise. “ Christmas Eve 
the English call it; and it is a great festival with 
them, even more than with us! ” 

“ See candles, many candles, in window! ” went 
on the savage, still puzzled. 

“Ah, somebody is expected!” replied Viardeau, 
at once growing more interested. “ Somebody 
more to fight! A good fight, maybe, after all! 
Eh, my Sacobi? ” 

“ Good fight, no fight, —all same to me, so long 
as job done and Black Father satisfied,” said the 
Indian with a large indifference. 

Just then the door opened, and a woman stood 
103 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


in the doorway, peering anxiously down the trail. 
Framed with the light as she was, and her face 
therefore enshadowed, her features could in no 
way be distinguished. But the form was that of 
a slender girl. 

At this sight Viardeau growled an impatient 
curse. His companion understood it. 

“ No prisoners! ” he grunted. “ No time for pris¬ 
oners ! That’s less trouble! ” 

And he made a significant gesture at his scalp- 
lock. 

Viardeau started. 

“ No! ” said he, in a tone of icy conclusiveness, 
“ none of that, my friend! There will be a prison¬ 
er. I will have no murder of women or children! ” 

The savage looked at him askance. There were 
unknown quantities in this Acadian which his less 
complex brain had not yet estimated. But he was 
an astute savage, and saw nothing to be profited 
by argument. It was clear, however, to him that 
Viardeau was angry at finding there was a woman 
to be reckoned with. Presently he saw Viardeau 
smile. How could his wrath vanish so rapidly? 
Sacobi could not grasp the quick workings of his 
companion’s mind. It had occurred to Viardeau 
that to save the woman’s life would in some degree 
compensate for the treachery of the business to 
which La Game and his own vindictiveness had 
committed him. 


104 


THE BLACK ABB$ 


While he was revolving this thought, and deriv¬ 
ing much satisfaction therefrom, he was fairly- 
startled by a sound from across the clearing. A 
piercing and piteous scream, a child’s scream of 
mortal terror and despair, thrilled through the 
evening quietude. Jean Yiardeau instinctively 
sprang forward clutching his musket. 

At the foot of the slope, where the Des Rochers 
trail emerged from the woods, came into view the 
small figure of a child, running for life. 

In a second it came into the line of light. It 
was a little boy. His sturdy legs were all too short 
for the speed required of them. In one mittened 
fist he frantically clutched the handle of a small 
wooden bucket. His light curls streamed out be¬ 
hind his shoulders, from under his woolen cap. 
And now Yiardeau saw his little round face, the 
eyes, wide with awful fear and hopeless appeal, 
fixed upon the lighted windows of home. 

At the sight of that childish agony, Jean Yiar¬ 
deau’s heart came uncomfortably into his throat. 
He had never been at ease when he saw a child suffer. 

“ What can have scared the tot? ” he murmured 
to himself. 

But even as he asked it, he was answered. 

Out from the darkness of the trail came a wolf, 
galloping low, muzzle down, tongue lolling from 
the fangs. And after him two more, close upon 
the leader’s gaunt flanks. 

105 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


Viardeau dared not lire. The child was in a 
line between his musket and the wolves. But he 
did not pause to weigh the consistency of his ac¬ 
tion. His throat aching with pity, he dashed down 
the slope, shouting to the child that he would save 
him. 

Upon the hope of help the little fellow’s strength 
all at once gave way. His knees failed him, and 
he fell headlong, face in the snow; and Viardeau 
groaned. 

But at that great shout the wolves paused, wa¬ 
vered an instant. It was but an instant, and they 
sprang again # to the attack, seeing a single foe be¬ 
fore them. But that instant was enough. Viar¬ 
deau was already between them and their quarry. 

Before they could leap upon him he fired, and 
one sank kicking on the snow. The fangs of the 
next were fairly at his throat, ere his long knife, 
driven upward with a tremendous short-arm stroke, 
went through the mad beast’s gullet and reached the 
brain. But the heavy onrush at the same moment 
all but overbalanced him; and in the wrench to 
keep his feet he swung violently aside, still cling¬ 
ing to the knife-hilt where it stuck fast in his 
adversary’s neck. 

That swing probably saved Viardeau; for the 
leap of the third wolf fell short. Its jaws clashed 
like a trap, but merely plowed a furrow in the 
flesh of his shoulder, and gained no damaging grip. 

106 


THE BLACK ABBE 


In the same second the brute caught sight of the 
long form of Sacobi, loping down to the rescue; 
and wheeling with a fierce snarl, it fled for the 
woods. Before it had gone ten paces the Indian’s 
musket crashed, and tho lean gray body, stretch¬ 
ing on the gallop, suddenly doubled up into a shud¬ 
dering heap of fur. 

“Well done, my brother!” panted Viardeau, 
shaking himself like a dog just from the water. 
Then he ran to pick up the boy, who still lay face 
downward, shaking and sobbing. 

“There, there! Don’t be scared, sonny, they’re 
all killed! ” he said gently in English, lifting the 
poor little figure. But at the sound of the kind 
voice the sobs broke into violent crying. The 
child clung convulsively to his neck, and hid his 
face in the comforting homespun bosom. 

“There, there, I’ll take you home,” he went on 
soothingly, all-forgetful of his grim errand. 

“ Oh, thank God you were in time! God bless 
you! God will bless you,—sir!” exclaimed a 
choking voice at his elbow. 

He turned, somewhat embarrassed by the cling¬ 
ing arms, and saw the young girl who had stood in 
the doorway. She was trembling so that she could 
scarcely stand up; and her face was ashen white. 
The light from the door, which stood wide open, 
shone full upon her; and for all her pallor Viar¬ 
deau’s first thought was that never before had he 
107 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


seen such a face. Smooth, heavy masses of fair 
hair, ruddy in the candle light, were drawn low to 
either side of a very broad, low forehead, and half 
covered the small ears. The eyes, astonishingly 
large, and now wide with agitation, were set far 
apart, and seemed to Viardeau like pools of liquid 
darkness. The short upper lip and short, upturned 
chin made Viardeau think, even in that moment, 
of an old Venetian coin which he had taken in the 
way of trade one day at Louisburg, and for its 
beauty had kept by him ever since. 

Jean Viardeau was more disturbed than he had 
been by the wolves. 

“ It was nothing, miss—they were only wolves! ” 
he stammered. “ Shall I carry the little fellow up 
to the house for you?” And he started up the 
lighted slope with his burden. 

All the time, however, he kept a sidelong gaze 
upon the girl who walked at his side. 

“Oh,” she cried again, in a poignant voice, 
pressing her hands to her eyes as if she would 
shut out a vision of horror. “If you had not 
come! If you had not come in time! ” 

Then she reached out her arms to the child. 
“ Come to me, Boysie! Come to me! ” she en¬ 
treated. 

But the boy clung the tighter to Viardeau’s 
neck. And the young Acadian glowed with an 
absurd warmth of satisfaction at the preference. 

108 


THE BLACK ABBE 


“How did I let him go so far alone, and so 
late? ” she went on, reproaching herself, with no 
tears, but hard, choking sobs. “ And the wolves. 
Father always said there were no wolves in Nova 
Scotia! ” 

“ The hard winter, the deep snow so early, that’s 
driven them in, from over the Neck, miss! ” spoke 
Yiardeau. 

By this they were come to the house. Silently 
the Indian stalked in after them, seated himself 
by the great open fire, and gazed into it with un¬ 
winking eyes. The child had by this time recov¬ 
ered himself somewhat, and stood upon his feet, 
releasing Viardeau from the solid burden of a 
sturdy lad of eight. But he kept close to his pro¬ 
tector’s side, and shivered if the latter moved a 
foot’s length away from him. Playing with a 
rude wooden doll, near the hearth, sat a little flax¬ 
haired girl of five or six. Looking up, she smiled 
indulgently upon the visitors. Then her look 
changed to one of deep concern. Jumping to her 
feet, she ran over to Viardeau and seized his hand. 

“Poor man! Poor man!” she cried earnestly. 
“Oh, what bit you? Oh, the blood! ” 

Bewildered by his emotions, and by the events 
which had brought him as a trusted protector into 
the household which he was sent to destroy, Jean 
Viardeau had not noticed his wound; but now he 
awoke to the burning throb of it. Instantly the 
109 


HOW VIARDEAU OBEYED 


tall girl was at his side, her eyes brimming with 
tears of self-reproach. 

“All I’ve thought of has been Boysie and my¬ 
self! ” she cried. “ Forgive me. Sit here, sir. I 
must dress it for you! Oh, but your poor shoul¬ 
der is so badly torn! Please sit down!” 

But Viardeau was now wide awake. He saw 
for the first time in all its hideousness the work 
which had been set him. He shook at the thought 
of it. 

“No, miss,” he answered, growing white about 
the lips. “It is nothing. We have far to go. 
We must go at once! ” And firmly he unclasped 
the child’s fingers from the flap of his woolen 
capote. 

The girl’s level brows went up in wonder and 
displeasure. 

“You can not go, sir, till I dress your wound! ” 
And gently, but with a certain positive authority, 
she pushed him toward a settle. “You can not 
go till we have supper. You can not go till my 
father comes, to thank you for saving the life of 
his only son. When father comes, he will keep 
you, to help us celebrate this happy Christmas, 
which but for you- 99 and with a passionate ges¬ 

ture she covered her eyes again, nor trusted herself 
to say what would have been but for him. 

Yiardeau felt that the wound—a tearing gash— 
should be dressed. And her fingers were very soft 




Her fingers were very soft and cool 






THE BLACK ABBfi 


and cool to the angry flesh. He looked at Sacobi; 
but the savage sat like a statue, gazing into the 
fire. The young man yielded. He would go right 
afterward. 

At this moment the steps of a heavy runner came 
up to the door. The door was dashed open. A 
big, ruddy man, light-haired, gray-eyed, frank of 
countenance, carrying a heavy pack, burst in. 
The pack fell by the door with a thud, and he 
sprang across the room to crush the boy to his 
heart. His father instinct had told him the situa¬ 
tion at once. Then he held out his hand to Viar- 
deau. 

“ God reward you, stranger! ” he exclaimed in 
a deep voice that thrilled with fervor. “ I see a 
bit of what’s happened. I heerd the shots. I 
seen the carcases out there. And I reckon you’ve 
saved for me what’s more’n my life! Now, tell 
me all about it, Marjy, my girl! ”—and he stopped, 
panting, and hugely out of breath. 

" It was nothing! It was all in the way of a 
day’s hunt! ” interposed Viardeau hastily. 

But the girl Marjory, breaking in indignantly, 
told the story as it was; and the boy, forsaking 
his father, emphasized it by running to cling again 
to Viardeau’s side. 

The big man’s eyes were wet. He came and 
wrung Viardeau’s hand once more. 

“I”—he stopped with a gulp,—"I see jest how 
111 


HOW VIABDEAU OBEYED 


it was! ” he cried. “ You can’t thank a man that’s 
done what you’ve done for me this night, stranger. 
But—but—if ever you want a friend, why, I’m 
John Brant,—and I’d give my right hand for you, 
—I’d—Marjy, my girl, make haste now and get 
supper. We’re all hungry, I reckon! Eh, sissy?” 
And to hide his emotion he snatched up the little 
girl with her wooden doll, and began careering 
boisterously up and down the room. 

After a minute or two of this he quieted down. 

“ I say, stranger, it was God Himself that sent 
you, I allow,” said he. “But where in thunder 
did you come from, so in the nickest of time? ” 

Jean Viardeau could stand it no longer. This 
gratitude, trust, devotion, were crushing him to 
the ground. He arose, and putting out his left 
hand in nervousness, he ungrasped the child’s arm 
and held it tight, consciously, while he spoke. 

“John Brant,” said he, “stop this gratitude. I 
will not eat of your bread. I will leave this roof 
as soon as I have spoken. I do not deserve that 
you should bear to look upon me. Where did I 
come from? Not from God. From the devil! I 
came to murder. I was sent to destroy this house, 
and all in it! ” 

“Well! I’ll be-” gasped the big man, sitting 

down and staring, while anger, astonishment, and 
a sort of sick horror chased each other over his 
broad face. 


112 


THE BLACK ABB& 


Now Sacobi, as it chanced, understood English, 
tho he could not speak it. At the first of Yiar¬ 
deau’s passionate speech he had turned, his eyes 
ablaze with scorn. As the young man went on, 
the Indian slipped noiselessly toward the door. 
No one heeded him. Over the big Englishman’s 
shoulder Yiardeau saw him open the door and van¬ 
ish into the night. He had no wish to hinder 
that flight. He went on with his self-denuncia¬ 
tion. 

“Before morning this house would have been 
ashes, you a dead man, your children captives— 
had I done what I was sent to do! ” concluded 
Yiardeau, dropping his head, not daring to meet 
the look which he felt must be in Marjory Brant’s 
eyes. 

There was a silence when he stopped—a silence 
that seemed to overtop and bear him down. Then 
he saw the girl had come to his side—was standing 
close by him. 

“You didn’t know!” she said softly. “You 
came to bring us death; but you brought us life, 
and shed your own blood for a stranger child.” 

“Right you are, Marjy, my girl!” exclaimed 
the big man, springing up to yet once more wring 
the hand that had saved his son. “Cheer up, 
man! Don’t look so down! Your heart’s in the 
right place. What care I for all you thought you 
was goin’ to do? You’re the man in all the world 
8 113 


THE BLACK ABBS 


for me, that’s what. You’ve given me my boy. 
Come, come, supper, my girl! Shall we starve on 
Christmas eve? Where’s your Injin?” 

“ He didn’t see it just as I did,” answered Viar- 
deau. “He’s gone!” 

“ Best place for him! ” said John Brant heartily. 

“He’d have been dreadfully in the way for 
Christmas!” said Marjory, laughing into Viar- 
deau’s eyes. 


114 


John Merrill’s Experiment 
in Palmistry 

By 

Florence M. Kingsley 

Illustrations 

By 

Florence Carlyle 


115 




JOHN MERRILL’S EXPERIMENT 
IN PALMISTRY 


John Merrill sat in his sanctum, his desk piled 
high with letters, manuscripts, proof-sheets, and 
other material necessary to the production of The 
Weekly Protest , a journal devoted to the best in¬ 
terests of mankind in general, and in particular to 
the extermination of machine politics, corner sa¬ 
loons, and breweries. 

In spite of its unpopular aims, however, The 
Protest was a popular sheet, for it boasted in the 
person of its editor a genuine humorist. John 
Merrill always saw the ludicrous side of every¬ 
thing, and this tendency of his crept into his 
would-be solemn editorials, and peeped out on 
every page, so that even in the saloons one might 
see a group of men laughing over the latest edi¬ 
tion of The Protest , which tickled their sense of 
humor, while it belabored their bottles and barrels 
with no tender hand. 

On the occasion of which I speak, the editor had 
just finished a particularly telling editorial. 

117 



JOHN MERRILL’S EXPERIMENT 


“That’ll fetch ’em,” he remarked to himself with 
a chuckle, as he wrote the last line with a flour¬ 
ish. “ It doesn’t leave The Daily Scratcher a leg 
to stand on nor a foot to scratch with. If Simp¬ 
kins only knew enough to appreciate the fact that 
he was properly rubbed down; but, for hopeless 
idiocy well mixed with asinine obtuseness, recom¬ 
mend me to Simpkins of The Scratcher. Hallo, 
what’s wanted? ”—this last to the office boy. 

“A—a—somebody to see you, sir.” 

“'Show ’em in, show ’em in,” said John Merrill 
briskly; “ and give this copy to Thatcher. ” 

The next minute he was staring at a small fig¬ 
ure, which looked as tho it might have strayed out 
from the open pages of a fairy book. The office 
boy, who had lingered to observe the effect of the 
visitor, retired, doubled up with an irrepressible 
fit of the giggles. 

“Oh, I say now, who are you?” said John 
Merrill. 

The newcomer—a diminutive black boy, attired 
in a costume of scarlet and purple, gorgeous to 
look upon—performed an obeisance suggestive of 
the most profound respect, and presented a large 
white envelope. A strange, spicy perfume floated 
out from the sheet as the editor slowly unfolded it. 

“‘Honored and Revered Sir,’ ” he began; “‘ I 
kiss the hem of your distinguished garment ’—■ 
What the deuce?—* I have the sublime pleasure 
118 


IN PALMISTRY 


had of what you call advertise in your Protest , 
once, twice, three times, for my great, grand, won¬ 
derful art of palmistry. I now crave also a boon, 
honored sir, to read what Fate has engraved upon 
your palm. Do me therefore the distinguished 
honor to come to my salon, and I freely read for 
you past things and things darkly hid by the veil 
of the future, yet clear and plain to my eyes as if 
writ on paper. The slave will conduct you, should 
you condescend to heed my prayer. With my 
forehead in the dust, distinguished savant, I kiss 
your feet, as becometh your base servant, Palmad, 
son of Thutmes.’ 

“ Tra-la-la! ” said John Merrill, when he had 
finished reading his epistle, “I’ll go! Here you, 
minion of Palmad, conduct me, I command thee, 
to the presence of thy lord. And no monkey- 
shines by the way, or I bowstring thee.” 

The boy displayed a mouthful of shining ivories, 
his great black eyes rolling in the lawless fashion 
peculiar to his race; then he winked rapidly and 
shook his head. 

“ I perceive that you do not understand the Eng¬ 
lish language, my young friend,” said the editor 
thoughtfully, as he glanced at his watch, “so I 
will merely request that you get a ‘ hustle on ’; for 
I must be back within an hour.” 

The boy started off at such a tremendous pace 
that John Merrill had great ado to keep up with 
119 


JOHN MERRILL’S EXPERIMENT 


him as he darted in and out through the crowd. He 
managed, however, to keep his eye pinned to the 
active red turban, which presently came to a stand, 
still before a flight of steps, leading up to one of 
those dubious edifices once fashionable residences, 
but long since abandoned to the stealthy upward 
trend of business. Following his guide up the 
winding staircase, the adventurous editor of The 
Protest found himself before a door, on which was 
inscribed in letters of gold, half a foot long, “ Pal- 
mad, the Seer.” 

This door, which swung open at the boy’s 
knock, revealed an interior so strange and fantas¬ 
tic that the visitor found himself walking softly, 
hat in hand. The subdued light from a pair of 
heavily draped windows shone through a haze of 
aromatic smoke, stealing upward in light wreaths 
from a censer swung before an image of the sleep¬ 
ing Buddha; about the neck of the god reposed a 
garland of lotus blooms, apparently fresh gathered. 
The walls were covered with Eastern draperies, 
and further adorned with groups of strange weap¬ 
ons and bits of barbaric pottery, in fantastic shapes 
and colorings. Chairs there were none, but luxu¬ 
rious divans against the wall were heaped high 
with parti-colored cushions. John Merrill paused 
in front of the image of Buddha, and looked about 
him somewhat impatiently. “ So far, good—and 
good as a circus; but where is the chief performer? ” 
120 


IN PALMISTRY 


Then being quite unabashed after his prolonged 
survey, he raised his voice and shouted, “ Palmad, 
son of Thutmes, come forth! ” 

Immediately the heavy curtains which concealed 
one end of the room parted, and the figure of a 
man, tall, slender, and sinuous, clad in the snowy 
robes and turban of an Oriental, came slowly down 
the room. This individual ran his quick black 
eye over the stalwart figure before him, then, bow¬ 
ing himself almost to the ground, he seized his 
visitor’s ungloved hand and looked at it earnestly. 
“ Thou hast had hardships in the past, ” he mur¬ 
mured, in perfectly good English; “ but thou hast 
before thee a great, a wonderful destiny.” 

John stared hard at the man; as usual he had a 
strong desire to laugh, but the seriousness, not to 
say solemnity, of the face before him was so great 
that he forebore. 

“ This glorious line of thy fate, ” continued the 
wizard, knitting his gloomy brows, “ is crossed by 
other lines in so strange a manner that—but come 
into my inner shrine, where the light of heaven 
will shine more clearly on the mystic hieroglyphs 
of thy palm.” 

At the end of an hour the editor of The Protest 
might have been seen rapidly making his way down 
the street. “ Confound it! ” he muttered, glancing 
at his watch, “I’ve wasted too much time on that 
fellow. ” Then he threw back his head and laughed 
121 


JOHN MERRILL'S EXPERIMENT 


aloud. “Best joke on Molly!—Let's see, not hap¬ 
pily married, he said, or at least not suitably mar¬ 
ried. Won’t she laugh when she hears that? " 

“I say, George," he remarked an hour after¬ 
ward to one of his coadjutors of The Protest , “ I 
went to see that palmist fellow; he sent forme 
this morning—offered to read my hand gratis ." 

“ Did he send that little monkey in red and gold 
after you?" queried George, languidly twisting 
his mustache with a very grimy hand. 

“Yes, that little black imp—did you see him? 
Well, he is a sample of the whole show. It’s the 
greatest show on earth, admittance ten dollars, at 
the usual rates. He told me a lot of stuff—and, 
by Jove, some of it was pretty straight! Said I 
might make a great hit inside of five years, and 
sail up like a rocket. But the best joke was that 
he declared I had not married the right girl! " 

“ He was off there," commenced George, laugh¬ 
ing uproariously. “ What will Mrs. Merrill think 
of that? I say, she'd better go and see what he'll 
tell her.” 

“Catch her spending a tenner on that sort of 
thing," said Merrill proudly; “ she's got too much 
sense. I had a good mind to tell the fellow that 
I'd been in love with my wife since I was in knee- 
breeches, but I didn’t—didn’t say a word; just 
looked sort of sad, and sighed a trifle. That led 

him on, and he enlarged upon the subject in a way 
122 


IN PALMISTRY 


that came near earning him a licking then and 
there. ” 

That night when the editor of The Protest got 
home, he found his two daughters thumping out 
a duet on the piano. They stopped long enough 
to inform him that “ Mama was out—downtown, ” 
they thought, then resumed their duet, which was 
only interrupted with an occasional brisk quarrel 
for the next half hour. 

The dinner-bell rang, and Mrs. Merrill was still 
missing. John waited five—ten minutes; then, 
in a decidedly grumpy frame of mind, ordered the 
meal to be served at once. 

“ When a man comes home tired and hungry he 
ought to find his wife ready to welcome him with 
a good dinner,” he thought to himself as he began 
to carve the mutton, which, unluckily, was quite 
tough. 

“ I’ll have a different cook when I get along a 
little further,” he continued, his mind half uncon¬ 
sciously reverting to the glorious prophecies of the 
wizard. Then certain other words of that worthy 
recurred to his mind. “Your unfortunate mar¬ 
riage may possibly counteract this line of fame; 
it crosses it in such a way as to leave us in some 
doubt-” 

At this particular point in his meditations the 
front door opened, and in another moment Mrs. 
Merrill, fresh and glowing from the cold air, en- 
123 


JOHN MERRILL’S EXPERIMENT 


tered the dining-room. “Oh, John,” she began, 

laughing, “I had the funniest time-” Then 

alarmed at the severe look with which he regarded 
her, she broke off to say, “ Why, what is the mat¬ 
ter with you—are you sick? ” 

“Sick? No!” exclaimed the editor, frowning. 
“But hang it all, Molly, this mutton’s tougher 
than tripe. That cook of yours wants watch¬ 
ing.” 

Mrs. Merrill drew off her gloves with a very 
sober face. “I don’t know that it is Bridget’s 
fault,” she said quietly; “the butcher is growing 
careless; perhaps you had better speak to him.” 
Then she turned to her daughters, who had been 
looking on in grieved astonishment. 

“I’ve something pretty for each of you,” she 
said brightly. “You shall see after dinner.” 

Not to dwell on a very disagreeable subject, I 
am obliged to confess that altho John Merrill never 
ceased to scorn himself for so doing, and declared 
to himself a thousand times a day that it was all 
rank nonsense, the words of Palmad, son of Thut- 
mes, stealthily burned themselves deeper and 
deeper into his heart, as evil words are sadly 
prone to do. From the genial, open-hearted, fun- 
loving companion that his family and friends had 
known in the past, he became little by little, mo¬ 
rose, introspective, and unable to laugh. 

“ What on earth has come over Merrill? ” asked 
124 


IN PALMISTRY 


the men in The Protest office, with blank faces. 
“He’s getting to be more of a faultfinder than old 
Simpkins.” 

“What’s the matter with The Protest? It’s 
falling off,” said the subscribers; and they too 
fell off by dozens. 

“ What can be the trouble with John?” wailed 
Mrs. Merrill, the tears, once strangers to those 
bright eyes, brimming quite over and running 
down her cheeks. In vain she wore all her pret¬ 
tiest gowns, and cooked with her own hands the 
dainty dishes that John loved. 

“I don’t know why,” that gentleman thought 
gloomily to himself, on one of these occasions of 
dismal failure; “but it does annoy me so to see 
Mary fidgeting and fussing to please me, that I 
can’t help being disagreeable.” 

“ Mary is a good woman, ” he said to himself, a 
month later; “ but I am afraid that we are sadly 
mismated.” By which it will be seen that the 
descent to Avernus had become very easy, and was 
growing proportionately swift. 

To the fact, which was duly pointed out to him, 
that The Protest subscription-list was dwindling 
sadly, he paid very little heed. Indeed, he had 
simply said, “ Confound The Protest! ” whereat 
his informant, George Benton, had stared, and 
gone sadly away to his desk. On a dark evening 
in December, John Merrill found himself next to 
125 


JOHN MERRILL’S EXPERIMENT 


Simpkins, the editor of The Daily Scratcher , in the 
elevated train. 

Simpkins nodded fraternally, then buried him¬ 
self in the pages of his own paper. “ Great note 
about that palmist fellow, ” he remarked presently, 
looking up. “ It seems he was not the right one.” 

“What did you say?” said John Merrill, rous¬ 
ing himself at the words. 

“ Why that fellow, Palmad, who’s been making 
such a to-do—you interviewed him, so did we— 
has been arrested for getting money under false 
pretenses.” 

“ What’s that? ” 

“ The great and only Palmad has just arrived, 
with great blowing of trumpets; the first one’s a 
fraud. He’s an American, named Jonas Smart, 
who caught on to the advance ads. of the great 
and only, rigged himself up with all the stage 
properties required, and skimmed the cream off the 
pan, while the other fellow was on his way from 
Bagdad, or India, or some other outlandish place.” 

“ And he knows nothing about palmistry? ” 

“Not a blamed thing—if there’s anything to 
know. Made it up as he went along. Big joke 
on a few people I know of!” And Simpkins 
laughed unpleasantly. “ Going to get out here? ” 

“Yes, I forgot something important. Good¬ 
night.” 

Once out of that train, John Merrill proceeded 
126 


IN PALMISTRY 


—as he afterward confessed—to kick himself 
around one block no fewer than eight times; after 
which, feeling somewhat soothed, he dashed into 
a florist's establishment and recklessly invested his 
last five dollars in a big box of roses. Then he 
ran every step of the way for the ten blocks which 
separated him from a certain snug house in Harlem. 

Mrs. Merrill was at home and alone—John made 
sure of that before he went in. Her face looked 
white and worn in the light of the big lamp, which 
shone on the heaped-up garments which she was 
patiently trying to “make do" for one more 
season. 

At the sight John Merrill deliberately batted 
his head against the wall and groaned. “ Insuf¬ 
ferable duffer that I am!" he ejaculated; then 
unable to bear his thoughts longer, he burst in 
upon the astonished little woman. 

“ Molly,” he cried, “hooray! Molly, you're the 
dearest little woman in the world, and /'m the 
biggest donkey in the world! It's another case of 
Titania and Bottom! Molly , do you hate me?" 
He knelt down at her feet, and the small woman 
called Molly totally disappeared in a profusion of 
overcoat, big arms, and whiskers. When she 
emerged a moment later, tearful and rosy, she 
asked solemnly, “John, are you sure you aren't 
coming down with grippe? " 

“Grippe? thunder, no!" roared John, “but I 
127 


JOHN MERRILL’S EXPERIMENT 


reckon I’ ve had it. Molly , hooray! ” And he 
tore the cover off the box and emptied five dozen 
big red roses into her lap, completely smothering 
the things which were being “ made to do. ” 

Mrs. Merrill doesn’t know to this day what ailed 
her husband. As for the men in The Protest office, 
they shortly forgot all about it, after the fashion 
of men. The subscribers forgot it too. Indeed, 
they very soon denied with indignation that they 
had ever said one derogatory word about the paper. 
As for the new subscribers—and their name was 
legion—they were too busy laughing over the cap¬ 
ital fun, mixed with capital good sense, with which 
its pages sparkled, to say more than this—the best 
of all good advertising, as every editor knows: “ If 
you haven’t read the last Protest , my dear fellow, 
you’ve missed it! ” 

When, early in the new year, a small, sleek, 
dapper, well-dressed and smiling individual, pre¬ 
sented himself in the office of this prominent sheet, 
to learn why his business card had not been printed 
in a late issue of the paper, he was both grieved 
and astonished at the reception he received in the 
sanctum of the editor. 

“ No y sir!” thundered John Merrill, in his 
deepest bass. “I don’t believe in palmistry; it’s 
all rot, sir, devilish rot! I won’t have the word 
printed in my paper! Good morning, sir.” 

Whereat the small, sleek, dapper, well-dressed 
128 


IN PALMISTRY 


individual, who was indeed no less a person than 
the distinguished Palmad, late of London, Paris, 
St. Petersburg, Vienna, and the world at large, 
went away. He was not smiling as he went, but 
at the distance of half a block from the office of 
The Protest he was seen to shrug his shoulders. 
“ Dese Americaine, ” he murmured tranquilly, 
“ aire singulaire—ver’ singulaire! ” 


9 


129 




The Strange Case of 
Esther Atkins 

By 

Mrs. L. E. L. Hardenbrook 


Illustrations 

By 

J. R. Connor 


131 





THE STRANGE CASE OF 
ESTHER ATKINS 


When Mrs. Atkins, after ten years of married 
life, became a widow, she with her only child Es¬ 
ther settled in a plain New England village, in 
whose outskirts she owned a pretty cottage de¬ 
signed as a summer home. As years passed by, 
Esther became to her daughter, sister, comrade, 
lover, friend—all in one. Their mutual sympathy 
and devotion far exceeded mere parental and filial 
regard. Esther’s character developed a stronger 
individuality than her mother possessed, and their 
relations were nearly reversed. Their secluded 
life was marked by deepening harmony, not marred 
even when an affection natural to Esther’s age cul¬ 
minated in her betrothal to Archibald Erksine. 

Contrary to the rule of the usual, this event 
was ardently desired and promoted by the mother. 
The young man was remotely connected with her 
family. He was of stedfast integrity, good men¬ 
tal endowments, and amiable nature. An acquaint- 
133 



THE STRANGE CASE OF 


ance, begun in childhood, ripened into sincere if 
not over-romantic affection, and their engagement 
was sanctioned on his last visit, during the vaca¬ 
tion of the Western College where he was prepar¬ 
ing for the ministry. 

Esther Atkins, tho of good physique, was not 
robust. In the spring of her nineteenth year, when 
returning from a walk to the village, she was over¬ 
taken by a sudden rain-storm. Reaching home 
chilled and wet, she lingered to read letters just 
received from her lover. During the night she 
was awakened by a congestive chill, the commence¬ 
ment of a severe attack of pneumonia. In spite of 
medical care, three days later Esther Atkins lay 
dead in the desolated home. 

The night before her death, when all hope had 
been abandoned, the stricken mother knelt by Es¬ 
ther’s bedside, silent and tearless in her despair. 
The dying girl, suddenly roused from the stupor in 
which she had lain, opened her glittering eyes, 
and placed one feeble arm about her mother’s 
neck. 

“Little Mither,” she said earnestly, using a 
playful pet name adopted from some verses called 
‘Mither and Me,’—“oh, do not believe me ca¬ 
pable of deserting you! It is not possible, dear. 
I could not prove so base, so faithless to all our 
life has been. In some way I shall achieve my 
purpose, tho I seem to go. I can not, will not 
134 


ESTHER ATKINS 


leave you until the end. Remember, oh! remem¬ 
ber, I will be by you to the end—yes! to your 
life’s end! ” 

This she repeated again and again in weakening 
tones. Then, babbling the refrain of the rimes 
ending 

“Nobody else, only Mither and me”— 
her eyes closed, and she spoke no more. 

A fortnight before this event took place, a fam¬ 
ily named Warner had moved into the village. 
They occupied a large gray stone house on the 
farther side of the small stream that meandered 
picturesquely through the place, and whose rustic 
bridges and a mill-site constituted pleasing fea¬ 
tures in the rural landscape. 

Mr. and Mrs. Warner had inherited this home¬ 
stead, and had now taken possession, bringing 
their daughter Elizabeth with them. They were 
strangers, and beyond the inevitable tradespeople, 
had met none of their neighbors. Elizabeth had 
made several visits to the small shops where house¬ 
hold necessities were to be procured. 

The first time she entered a fancy store, the 
woman in it advanced with a familiar smile, say¬ 
ing, “ Good morning, ” adding: “ What can I show 
you, Miss Atkins?” 

Elizabeth replied with some haughtiness in her 
135 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


contralto voice, “I am not Miss Atkins, but I 
would like some carpet thread and large needles, 
if you please.” The woman stared. “Yes, miss; 
excuse me, miss. I hear you are not, but I could 
not have believed it, if you had not spoken.” 

Elizabeth felt the woman’s eyes follow her in 
mute bewilderment while she made her pur¬ 
chases. 

On her way homeward, some boys and two 
women said “ Good day ” as she passed by. She 
thought it country courtesy, till one small urchin 
added “Miss Atkins,” and she was slightly an¬ 
noyed. Then she recalled greetings in church, and 
how several persons lingered and stared when she 
joined her parents. 

Elizabeth Warner told her mother of these re¬ 
peated experiences, and they were curious to see 
“Bessie’s double,” as they called the unknown 
Miss Atkins. 


Elizabeth Warner was returning from the post- 
office one day. Just as she passed over the bridge 
nearest the ivy-clad church, the mellow bell began 
to toll. She stopped to count. Nineteen strokes 
only. She sighed. That was her own age. It 
must be sad to die at nineteen. 

She retraced her steps. A man was clearing 
rubbish from the front of the churchyard. 

“ Who is dead? ” she asked. 

136 

































































































































































ESTHER ATKINS 


“ A sweet young lady, miss, ” he answered be¬ 
fore looking up. When he did so, he stared. 

“ Ah! she might he your twin sister, miss. And 
only three days sick.” 

“ And her name? ” 

Elizabeth felt it before he said: “ Miss Esther 
Atkins; and sure she must have been some kin to 
ye,” he muttered. 

“ Thank you. ” Miss Warner walked home slowly. 

“ Mother,” said Elizabeth that evening, “ I heard 
that Miss Atkins died to-day—the girl, you know, 
who looked like me. Would it be a proper thing 
for me to go to her house? I want to see her. 
They lived in that white, neat-looking cottage at 
the turn of the shady lane we like so much. She 
had no one but her mother. May I go? Indeed, 
I feel that I must. ” 

“Why, Bessie dear,” replied the placid Mrs. 
Warner, “I can see no reason why you should 
not. They would certainly have called soon. In 
a place like this it would show our neighborly 
sympathy. Take some lilies. An only daughter, 
and just your age, did you say? I am sorry for 
her mother. I must go and see her some day.” 

Mrs. Warner took up her work-basket, and as she 
put her needles away she debated in her mind what 
sort of preserves Mr. Warner would prefer for tea. 


137 



THE STRANGE CASE OF 


The next day Elizabeth went to the cottage, her 
heart full of a vague sadness, and her hands full 
of pale flowers. She met some women on the same 
sad errand, and asked to join them. She had 
veiled her face from an instinct of delicacy to con¬ 
ceal a resemblance that might be painful. As she 
stood by the dead girl’s bier and laid the garlands 
at her feet, looking long and stedfastly at the face 
so like her own, she could easily perceive the re¬ 
semblance. A picture she had of herself with 
downcast eyes was more like Esther than like her¬ 
self. There was the very arch of the brow, the 
droop of the mouth, the wave of the brown hair. 
She noted the lobes of the ears, unpierced like her 
own; touched her hands, placing some lilies-of-the- 
valley in the fingers. They were tapering and 
shapely like her own. 

Elizabeth stood spellbound. Great waves of 
pitying tenderness swept over her, a yearning re¬ 
gret that she had not known her, had not been 
able to love or serve her—a cry from a sisterless 
soul for a joy unrealized, a need never known till 
now. 

She stooped impulsively, kissed Esther’s cold 
face, and departed. 

The day following she sat among the people in 
the church and stood beside the open grave of the 
young girl so early called away. Elizabeth had 
138 


ESTHER ATKINS 


never before met Death in such a form that it ap¬ 
pealed to her personally. She felt, in a sub¬ 
conscious way, that tho for Esther it was the end, 
for her it was a starting-point: there were new¬ 
born emotions and desires, crude and imperfect, 
but yet real, surging in her soul. 

Elizabeth could never recall the days that fol¬ 
lowed this burial. She was absorbed by a vague 
disquiet, a sense of impending crisis that rendered 
her usual life unusual. Her parents considered her 
in low spirits, depressed by the change of resi¬ 
dence, associates, and occupations, affected natu¬ 
rally by being confronted on the very threshold of 
a new life by this spectacle of death arresting one 
young and closely resembling herself. 

They waited for Time to remove these sad im¬ 
pressions. 

Late in the afternoon of the ninth day after Es¬ 
ther Atkins’s funeral, Mr. and Mrs. Warner re¬ 
turned from a long drive. Bessie was not at home. 
On her mother’s dressing-table lay a sheet of 
paper. On it Elizabeth had written: 

Dear Mother : — I feel as if I must go and comfort Mrs. 
Atkins. If I should not come home to-night don’t be 
frightened. I shall be perfectly safe. 

With love, 

Bessie. 

Mr. and Mrs. Warner talked during the evening 
139 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


of their daughter’s loving nature, and were only 
slightly disquieted when at bedtime Bessie had 
not returned. 

As in a dream, Elizabeth Warner sped along the 
road that led to Mrs. Atkins’s cottage. She was 
impelled; she did not go—she was taken. 

Passing the churchyard, she caught sight of a 
black-robed figure; it was that of Esther’s mother. 
She did not stop; the house was her destination. 
Her mind held but one purpose—to reach the cot¬ 
tage. She opened the gate, entered, and went up 
the pathway. A dog came to meet her, and 
fawned upon her; she patted his rough head fear¬ 
lessly. As she reached the door she remembered 
where the key was always hidden —in a window- 
shutter—got it, unlocked the door, replaced the 
key, sprang the latch, and went upstairs to a room. 
She knew it, but it looked so prim and formal. 
She was drowsy; she sat down for a moment and 
nodded. 

Oh, this would never do! She must sleep! In 
an instant her hat was off, her wrap, her dress 
hung up. She caught a dressing-gown from the 
closet, put it on, and sank down upon the bed. 
Sleep overcame her at once. 

The sun shone cheerily through the white-cur¬ 
tained window, lighting the room where Elizabeth 
140 


ESTHER ATKINS 


Warner had slept long and deeply. It was Esther 
Atkins who awakened and looked drowsily about 
her familiar bedroom. “ How well I feel! ” ran 
her thoughts. “ They were mistaken in fancying 
me so ill. I will get up and surprise mother.” 

She rose softly, so as to disturb no one, and 
began to dress. Her hair looked odd, but she 
quickly arranged it in her usual way. When she 
went to her closet for a dress she noticed some 
strange articles of clothing: “ These must belong 
to some nurse mother has had for me,” she thought, 
and she hung them out of sight. She put on a 
blue morning-dress, knotted a ribbon at her throat; 
her gown as well as her shoes seemed loose. “ I 
have lost flesh—and how pale my hands are ! 99 she 
thought. She said her morning prayer and went 
downstairs. 

In the small breakfast-room Mrs. Atkins sat, 
her Bible on her knees. Esther’s step was heard, 
then her voice, humming the lines of a familiar 
hymn. 

The door opened. 

“ Good morning, dearest Mither, ” said the girl. 
“I have come down to breakfast with you. I 
awoke feeling so strong I wanted to surprise you.” 
And she came closer, bent over and kissed the 
astounded lady. Mrs. Atkins looked in her face, 
gasped, and almost lost consciousness. Esther 
put her arms around her. 

141 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


“ Oh, dearest, I did not mean to startle you so! ” 
she said. “ Did you think I was not able to get 
up yet? Dr. Manly was wrong to frighten you 
about my chill. I knew it was not serious. He 
just wanted to make a bill as big as when you were 
ill last winter. We must try Dr. Selden and his 
little sugar pills, next time. Come, everything 
will get cold. Let me pour you a cup of tea.” 

“ Esther, Esther, my child! Oh, it can not be 
you, alive, well again, after all I have suffered! 
Have I been dreaming, or am I mad! ” cried the 
distracted mother. 

“ You look as if you had been ill, instead of me, 
precious little Mither,” said the girl, soothing and 
caressing her. “ You have been over-anxious; but 
now all will be well again, and I shall begin at 
once to nurse you. Oh! I must let Rollo in for a 
minute, he is begging and scratching so hard at the 
door.” 

A moment after, she and the overjoyed house¬ 
dog were romping together in all the freedom of 
long and familiar friendship. 

In a waking dream, Mrs. Atkins gazed upon 
them. Had Esther’s death been the fearful vis¬ 
ion of a diseased brain? This was Esther’s form, 
wearing Esther’s garb, Esther’s voice speaking 
Esther’s love, using Esther’s household phrases. 
What did it all mean? Then for a moment Mrs. 
Atkins fancied she had died in her turn, and was 
142 


ESTHER ATKINS 


meeting Esther in their “ own place n beyond the 
dark valley. 

With sadden self• surrender she regained partial 
composure, rose, and embraced Esther, saying she 
was quite well, only faint from fasting. They sat 
down, and ate their simple breakfast together. 

Mrs. Atkins furtively regarded the girl opposite 
her. It was, and yet was not, the same Esther 
she had borne, nurtured, loved, and, as she 
supposed, buried. If a ghost, she was not 
ghostly. A spirit had not warm, fleshly identity, 
a varying bloom, and an interest in every-day 
homely topics, a healthy relish for plain cottage 
fare. 

She fancied she could detect slight differences 
of feature only appreciable to a mother’s eye. 
When the face before her was in repose, when the 
girl raised her eyes, and they and her lips smiled, 
there was no doubt possible. Be the solution what 
it might, at least these moments should be pro¬ 
longed and rapturously enjoyed. If God had been 
so merciful and tender in His loving-kindness as 
to restore her one well-beloved wee lamb, she 
would accept her with thanksgiving at His hands. 
They went together into the sitting-room, and Es¬ 
ther, as was their custom, read aloud the lesson 
and psalms for the day. 

There seemed a plaintive pathos in her voice, as 
she read the verse: “ He came unto His own, and 
143 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


His own received Him not. ” After that, they fell 
into sweet converse. 

It would be untrue not to admit that, despite 
her acceptance of the gift, the mother was adroitly 
applying test after test to her restored daughter. 
She talked of the past, the future, the present— 
all was alike familiar to the girl. Esther, fre¬ 
quently leading the conversation, would remind 
her mother of particulars forgotten by the elder 
lady. She recalled topics in Archibald’s letters 
to her, speaking of his studies and approaching 
ordination. 

Of him she spoke with less ardor than usual, 
Mrs. Atkins fancied $ but Esther’s love affair had 
been more like stedfast friendlme&s than ardent 
passion, as if filial love rendered all other emo¬ 
tions subservient to its domination. The morning 
was wearing away,—Esther having resumed some 
needle-work, laid aside when her illness began— 
when a carriage stopped at the gate. Mr. and 
Mrs. Warner alighted, and were met on the porch 
by Mrs. Atkins. They introduced themselves as 
they met. 

“We have come for our daughter,” Mrs. War¬ 
ner said. “We grew a trifle anxious, and as the 
day is becoming cloudy, drove over for her, as well 
as to call upon you.” 

“ Your daughter? ” repeated Mrs. Atkins. 

“ Yesj Bessie left word she was coming to visit 
144 


ESTHER ATKINS 


you. Her sympathies have been so deeply wrought 
upon by your bereavement, she waived all cere¬ 
mony to come to you.” 

“I hardly know what to say, Mrs. Warner,” 
faltered the poor widow. “A young girl, the 
counterpart of my Esther, is here. Come in and 
judge for yourselves.” She led the way into the 
sitting-room. 

The girl arose as they entered and stood mod¬ 
estly expectant. The pause was awkward. “ Mr. 
and Mrs. Warner,” announced Mrs. Atkins; “they 
have called to see us.” 

The form in the blue dress advanced, no recog¬ 
nition in her face, which expressed simply cour¬ 
tesy. 

“I am very pleased to meet you,” said Esther’s 
gentle voice, as she extended her hand to the call¬ 
ers. “Pray be seated.” 

“ Bessie! Elizabeth! ” broke from the lips of 
both parents. Mrs. Warner wrung her hands, and 
sank helplessly upon the offered seat. 

“My God!” exclaimed Mr. Warner. “Why, 
she does not know us! Mother, is this our Eliza¬ 
beth? Her very voice is changed. Oh, what has 
happened? My child,” he addressed her vehe¬ 
mently, “ we have come to take you home. Why 
do you look so strangely? Can you have forgotten 
us? Don’t you know your own name? ” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Warner,” said Esther with 
10 145 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


quiet dignity, “ I do not exactly follow your mean¬ 
ing. There must be some mistake here. I am 
Esther Atkins. This is my mother. We have 
lived here nearly all my life. I presume you are 
the new inmates of the old Warner homestead. I 
have never seen either of your faces to my knowl¬ 
edge until this moment.” 

“ Wife, this is not our Bessie’s voice,” said Mr. 
Warner; “but can we not be sure of our own child 
even in these clothes? Mrs. Atkins, I have Bes¬ 
sie’s note in my pocket, saying she was coming to 
you. If this be not Bessie, where is our daugh¬ 
ter? ” 

Esther took the note and read the few lines. 

“ I do not catch the drift of your talk, Mr. War¬ 
ner,” she said, “nor do I see why your daughter 
should wish to comfort my mother. I am here for 
all services she may require so long as life lasts. 
I will show you that I could not have written that 
note.” She found a pencil as she was speaking, 
hastily copied a few lines on the reverse of the 
paper, and handed it to Mr. Warner. He looked 
at it, at her, and groaned aloud in his dismay. 
Mrs. Warner sobbed hysterically, and Mrs. Atkins 
went to get a glass of wine for the distracted 
woman. 

“ You will please excuse me if I withdraw, ” said 
Esther. “ This is the first day I have been able 
to leave my room since my illness, and I am not 
146 


ESTHER ATKINS 


yet strong. Mother will explain if any explana¬ 
tion is needed of so plain a fact, that I am cer¬ 
tainly her daughter and not yours. Good-day, Mrs. 
Warner. Good-by, Mr. Warner. We hope to see 
you again. 5 ’ Then she retired. 

Mrs. Atkins, returning, prevailed upon Mrs. 
Warner to take the wine, and when somewhat re¬ 
stored to discuss the extraordinary and perplexing 
complication of the situation. Mrs. Atkins learned 
for the first time of the personal resemblance of 
the girls, of Bessie’s interest in Esther, and the 
effect her death had produced. Every point of 
identity was discussed in search of a solution. It 
was a riddle beyond the reading of their minds. 

What was to be done? Should the Warners 
persist in claiming the girl and force her to return 
to their protection, it might aggravate the trouble, 
for both parents were convinced that this personi¬ 
fication, complete and mystifying in its very com¬ 
pleteness, must bo the result of some mental dis¬ 
order. Finally Mrs. Atkins besought them, as 
Bessie was safe and free from all exciting influ¬ 
ences under her roof, that they would allow her to 
remain. At the first sign of returning self-con- 
sciousness they should be summoned. To avoid 
comment it was to be understood by others that 
Miss Warner was making a visit to the cottage. 

The singular relationship, so oddly begun, be- 
147 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


came only more and more real as day after day 
Miss Warner remained with Mrs. Atkins. 

At times the mother’s sense of loss was entirely 
dispelled. She could not address or think of the 
girl otherwise than as the child of her delight and 
sorrow. Under the spell of her presence it was 
impossible to act otherwise than in sympathetic 
response to the spirit abiding in the form so 
strangely the reflex image of her idolized Esther. 
How could she reason with facts quite beyond 
reason? 

In her first distress she had privately sent a 
minute statement of the case to Archibald Erksine, 
begging him to come to her. He was on the eve 
of his ordination at the time of Esther’s illness; 
the distance, as well as the circumstances, forbade 
the journey. He had accepted the great trial with 
the resignation of a Christian. 

Some weeks elapsed before the young minister 
arrived. His letters meanwhile had been brief 
and to Mrs. Atkins only. The girl had made no 
comment when he wrote that he would await op¬ 
portunity of explanation when they met face to 
face. 

During this interval the Warners had become 
sincerely attached to the amiable mistress of the 
white cottage, as well as to Esther domiciled in the 
person of their own child. 

148 


ESTHER ATKINS 


They had consulted physicians in the adjacent 
city, experts in all kinds of mental alienation, but 
from no one of them could they learn of a parallel 
case. No explanation could be found save in the 
Biblical “ possession, ” that responded to a consid¬ 
eration of the facts. 

The girl was an involuntary actor, ignorant of 
the role she could not be said to play, since she 
was all that she appeared to be—except the earthly 
garment in which she lived and moved. 

They were advised to allow Time to solve the 
problem 5 and since their daughter’s physical health 
was not involved, to hope for and expect a speedy 
resumption of normal conditions. 

The Warners frequently took their new friends 
to drive, and the parental partnership established 
between them was not the least curious and pa¬ 
thetic feature of the case. 

When Archibald Erksine was expected, Mrs. 
Atkins had arranged that “Esther” should be 
absent with the Warners. Their meeting was 
marked by repressed agitation. Erksine could not 
comprehend Mrs. Atkins’s acceptance of the iden¬ 
tity of Miss Warner with his Esther, her daughter. 

Death he could understand; not this death in a 
new life, a dual personality for which the bereaved 
mother felt even an humble thankfulness. After 
all had been weighed and debated, she could only 
sigh, “ Just wait and see! ” 

149 


THE STBANGE CASE OF 


Presently the carriage stopped, and Esther, 
alighting, walked cheerily up to the house. Her 
mother and her lover stood together: he pale and 
constrained. The sight of one so easily mistaken 
for his dead sweetheart moved him profoundly. 
Esther, on the contrary, was at ease and smiling: 

“Oh, I never dreamed you’d be here so early! ” 
she said, extending her hands, and looking straight 
into his eyes: “ I must welcome the Reverend Mr. 
Erksine with due deference, I suppose,” she began 
playfully—then paused. 

“How changed you are, Archie,” she cried; 
“have you been ill? Or is it your longer hair 
and this new beard that have altered you so? ” 

It was in truth the past suffering and strain that 
had left their impress upon his countenance—and 
a present overpowering consternation! For this 
was Esther! He could not gainsay it, any more 
than he could deny his own identity. He had fan¬ 
cied he could meet her unmoved, conscious that his 
promised wife lay under the clods of the church¬ 
yard—that he could defy, perhaps resent, a coun¬ 
terfeit of his lost one, even tho it had deceived the 
mother’s more credulous nature. 

But in an instant he had recognized that it was 
Esther indeed, and none other, who stood before 
him, and he rallied, took her hands tenderly, and 
reponded naturally, if not without effort. 

How it was the girl herself who seemed to with- 
150 


ESTHER ATKINS 


draw, as if in that first searching gaze she had read 
distrust without comprehending its cause. 

Two evenings later they were alone together— 
the first tete-a-tete Archibald had dared to risk. 
His brain was bewildered, his imagination per¬ 
turbed; he was agitated by confusion and contra¬ 
diction. The girl attracted him painfully; he 
kneiv she was not Esther, yet felt that she was! 
Even the shades of difference were imbued with 
peculiar fascination, as if Esther had appeared in 
a fantastic garb or a strange coiffure that became 
her only too well. 

She sat thoughtfully by his side in the vine- 
shaded arbor that had often been their trysting- 
place during their simple courtship. 

“ I was about to ask you to come hither when 
you led me without the asking,” said Esther’s 
voice. “I often wonder if speech is not almost 
superfluous between kindred natures. You know 
how often we have replied to each other’s letters 
before they were received, as they met and crossed 
on their way. I wonder now if you have divined 
what I have to say to you? ” 

She looked kindly but sadly into his eyes. 

“No,” he replied, meeting her look steadily; “a 
veil has fallen between us. Do you ever feel that 
you are not exactly the same Esther who pledged 
herself to me? ” 

The girl seemed troubled. 

151 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


“Yes,” she said, hesitating; “it is of that I 
wish to speak, yet I shrink from the chance of 
giving you pain. I have pondered and prayed, 
oh! so fervently, of late for light and guidance. 
I think I have received both. Since my illness I 
can see things more clearly. My perceptions are 
painfully acute. You are changed. And do you 
not see how mother is failing?” 

“Not seriously,” Archibald answered. “ She is 
always delicate.” 

“You may not, but to me it is very plain.” 
Then the girl continued, as if she were repeating 
a lesson: “ It fills my mind by day and by night. 
It has withdrawn me from you. I am only a 
daughter. I shall never be a wife. It is not my 
vocation. One should do what one is best fitted 
for, and only that. Archibald, you must release 
me from my promise to you. My life’s devotion 
is pledged to my mother. I can not divide my 
allegiance. It would break her heart to be bereft 
of my loving care. I am vowed to her and her 
alone. As I grow nearer to her I withdraw from 
you. And I have lost your ring. I missed it as 
soon as I got well. You seem so far away—as if, 
with the ring, I had lost you! . . . Help me,” 
she said more naturally; “ you always did help me 
to my duty. Return me my word and my freedom 
that I may consecrate all that remains to us of life 
to my mother.” 


152 


ESTHER ATKINS 


“We have spoken of this before, you know,” 
Archibald said, “ and it was agreed that we were 
to share this solicitude and care. What has 
changed your mind? ” 

“ Oh! I do not know, I do not know! ” cried 
the poor girl in a perplexity of spirit most pitifully 
apparent in her voice and expression. “I only 
know it is so—that I have not been able to deter¬ 
mine my duty to you, and that my heart is chilled 
toward you. You see, I can not touch your hand 
without distress. You have not kissed me since 
you came. I did long for your coming, but I was 
not glad after the first instant of our meeting. 
The word of a promise is nothing when its sense 
has departed. We no longer love each other as 
when our hearts were pledged. My illness has 
changed me. The love I bear my mother is the 
only love I can ever know.” 

Archibald watched her with tender pity. He 
understood better than she did her pathetic plight. 

“ Esther, ” he said solemnly, as if he addressed 
the dead, “ by the power of the love I bore you 
once, and do bear you now, I am made able to help 
and serve you as your best friend. Put me aside 
wholly, if so it seem best to you. Call me when 
you need me. I will never fail you; of that be 
sure.” 

“I knew you were more than worthy, Archi¬ 
bald, ” she said after a pause. “ I am exalted by 
153 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


your trust. God will bless, and in some way, in 
His own good time, reward you. Begin a new life: 
seek new ties. Esther’s tomb is the heart of her 
mother. She is dead to you and to love forever.” 

Before he could reply she had risen, and seemed 
to dissolve into the twilight, so quick and noiseless 
was her passing. 

Half distraught by contending emotions, the day 
after this interview Archibald Erskine left the vil¬ 
lage, and returned to his mission work in the far 
West. 

A week later the girl arose early. Her manner 
was that of a sleep-walker. She groped in the 
depths of the closet, discovering the garments of 
Elizabeth Warner hidden there at her coming, and 
dressing herself in those, stole down the stairs and 
passed out into the silent morning. 

She walked directly to the Warner homestead. 
As she drew near the house, a maid was sweeping 
the front porch. “ Good morning, Miss Eliza¬ 
beth,” said she, “I’m glad to see you home again.” 

“ What nonsense! ” returned Miss Warner, “ I’ve 
only been to the bridge.” 

She went upstairs; her bedroom door was open. 
She entered, sat down before the mirror, and re¬ 
moved her hat. Her head ached in a dull, dazed 
way. A thick portiere hung at the door that led 
into her mother’s room. 


154 



She seemed to dissolve into the tw.light. 



































ESTHER ATKINS 


“ Are you awake, mama? ” she asked. 

Mrs. Warner sprang up. 

“Listen, Charles, listen! Bessie lias come 
back,” she gasped. 

“ Thank God! Go to her; but be careful what 
you tell her,” was his low reply. 

“Yes, dear,” called Mrs. Warner, and passed 
into her daughter’s room. 

Elizabeth sat as if stupefied, staring out of her 
window. 

“ What is it, daughter?” her mother asked. 

“Oh! mama, I have such a queer headache; 
and what is the matter? I can not remember that 
the roses were blooming yesterday. See! the 
bushes are all in bloom and in May! ” 

“No, no; it is June the 21st, Bessie—-you have 
forgotten,” said her mother. “Lie down and I 
will bathe your head. Don’t try to think yet.” 

“Why—why not?” she cried. “Oh, mama, 
have I been ill? Is that why I can not remem¬ 
ber?” 

Mrs. Warner caught at the suggestion. “ Yes, 
my child,” she assented; “quite, quite ill. You 
hurt your head, you know, and have been flighty.” 

“ Did I fall on my way to the cottage—and was 
it a month ago? ” 

“ Yes, dear, yes; but you must not talk or think 
of it now.” 

Mrs. Warner was removing Bessie’s dress as she 
155 


THE STRANGE CASE OF 


spoke, substituting a wrapper, and coaxing her to 
lie upon the couch. Then giving her a nervine, 
and bathing her brows, she soothed her into a nat¬ 
ural slumber. 

From that short sleep she awoke to take up her 
life again as Elizabeth Warner. 

In reviewing her condition of supposed delirium, 
she told her mother it was delightful to be out of 
one’s mind, since all her visions had been of a life 
amid lovely scenes bathed in a luminous life-giving 
atmosphere, in fellowship with beings of angelic 
aspect. 

She was not allowed to dwell upon these mem¬ 
ories; her doctors had expressly forbidden it. 

For three weeks Elizabeth moved about the 
house as formerly. The Warners were an unde¬ 
monstrative family, such as one often finds in New 
England; the daughter of strong personality, but 
always under the sway of the habitual repression 
that pervaded the household. Whatever was 
forbidden her, she tried to dismiss from her 
thoughts. 

The intimacy of the families continued. At the 
end of the three weeks Miss Warner and her pa¬ 
rents called one day as usual to take Mrs. Atkins 
for a drive. 

As the twilight deepened, Bessie became very 
quiet; indeed, she half dozed in her seat next 
Mrs. Atkins. They stopped at her gate. Mr. 

156 


ESTHER ATKINS 


-Warner opened the door of the carriage; Mrs. 
Atkins alighted. 

Then a voice— Esther’s voice—said, as the girl 
sprang after her: “ Be careful, mother, the path 
is damp. Thank you so much for our pleasant 
ride, Mrs. Warner. I do think they are doing the 
little mither so much good. Come over again soon 
—do. Good-night.” 

Esther led her mother to the cottage, while Mrs. 
Warner wept over her Bessie’s relapse. 

Her second return to the Warner homestead oc¬ 
curred late in August, but her stay was even more 
brief. Mrs. Atkins’s health was visibly failing, 
and the girl’s solicitude when with her affected 
even the robust constitution of the daughter of the 
Warners. 

During this home-staying, Elizabeth was ill at 
ease, and her parents were hardly surprised when 
she once again as adroitly as before resumed her 
post beside the lonely widow at the Atkins cottage. 

Not many days after her third resumption of the 
role of “Esther Atkins,” a message from her 
reached the Warners. Mrs. Atkins was very ill. 
Mr. Warner telegraphed for a trained nurse, and 
Mrs. Warner went at once to the side of the sick 
woman, her heart full of distress as she awaited 
the effect upon her daughter. As the girl moved 
about the room, Mrs. Warner felt herself in the 
presence of something superhuman. 

157 


THE STKANGE CASE OF 


The girl slept not, hardly tasted food, seemed 
upheld by a strength not of this world, sustained 
in her angelic ministrations by a faith that did not 
falter, a love that could not fail. She sang by the 
bedside of the sleepless sufferer, soothed her by 
tone and touch—such accents as never could have 
issued from Elizabeth Warner’s lips. 

The dying woman recognized, rested in, the pure 
presence of her child. At times her mind would 
wander, but at a word in the voice of Esther the 
soft eyes would open upon the beloved face, the 
weak fingers clasp the beloved hand, the wan lips 
utter some phrase of endearment to the daughter 
who had in truth been faithful unto the end. 

The end came so peacefully at last, as she lay in 
the young girl’s arms, that the watchers thought 
they slept. They loosed her clasp. The girl gave 
one imploring look at the fixed features, and sank 
into unconsciousness complete as catalepsy beside 
the lifeless form. 

In this condition the Warners bore her home, 
and her restoration was followed by nervous pros¬ 
tration little short of collapse. Careful nursing 
and rest, seconding her natural strength, led to 
gradual recovery. 

Late in the autumn her parents, fearing some 
local influence might induce relapse, or that even 
chance gossip might reveal her forgotten sojourn 
under Mrs. Atkins’s roof, decided to winter in 
158 


ESTHER ATKINS 


Southern California, where Mr. Warner’s brother 
had settled some years before. 

In time the Warner place passed into strange 
hands, for the family never returned. 


Five years later, by one of those strange chances 
which may be called fate, the Rev. Archibald Erk- 
sine, whose health had been impaired by his ardu¬ 
ous labors, was called to the rectorship of a small 
but vigorous church in the town where the Warner 
family resided. Time and change of climate had 
so modified the outward semblance of Miss Warner 
that he had known her for some months as an ear¬ 
nest and intelligent worker among his parishioners, 
and was greatly attracted both by her person and 
character, before he identified her as the maiden 
linked to the one baffling mystery of his life. 

When he did identify her it was only to rivet 
the bond between them, as if Esther had foreseen 
and elected Elizabeth to be his earthly partner and 
helpmeet. 

In due time she became his wife. Their first 
born was a son, and received the name of his ma¬ 
ternal grandfather. At the birth of the second 
child, a girl, there was much debate on the subject 
of a name for her. 

The father sat by the bed whereon lay mother 
and child. 

“ I have been thinking, Archie, ” said the mother, 
159 



CASE OF ESTHER ATKINS 


“that, if you have no objection, I should like to 
call our daughter Esther. It is a sweet old Bible 
name, and I have a peculiar association with it. 

When we moved to C-ten years ago, a young 

girl of that name died there. Oh! you must know; 
she was the daughter of the distant relative who 
made you her heir—Mrs. Atkins. They said we 
looked alike. I have recalled her so often lately, 
and I would like to keep her name in our home.” 

“Certainly,” Mr. Erksine replied. “It is very 
sweet and tender in you to have thought of it. 
Esther it shall be.” 

So Esther Atkins Erksine began her life. The 
Rev. Archibald Erksine was a model husband, but 
he sacredly withheld one secret from his wife, tho 
his only daughter’s name served as a perpetual 
reminder of the first and lost love of his youth. 


160 



Jacob City 
By 

A. Stewart Clarke 


Illustrations 

By 

Charles Johnson Post 


11 


161 





JACOB CITY 


The sun is shining hotly on the roofs of Jacob 
City. ? Tis seven o’clock, and yet the rocks, which 
thrust their naked shoulders from among the motley 
collection of rough buildings that line the strag¬ 
gling street along the bottom of the gulch and 
bunch in confusion on either side, still reflect a 
scorching heat. 

The air is dancing and throbbing over the tops 
of the sage-brush and rising in waves from the ribs 
of limestone that seam the slope. A hundred 
houses and a few larger buildings with imposing 
fronts and weather-beaten signs, on which the 
traces of letters are faintly discernible, clustered 
together in a sun-baked ravine: such is Jacob City. 

The doors of many houses stand open, yet none 
seems to invite hospitality; no smoke rises from 
their chimneys and no sound breaks the silence 
that broods within their walls. Piles of rusted 
cans lie here and there in heaps, and bottles of 
many shapes and dimensions, in various stages of 
163 



JACOB CITY 


preservation, are scattered in all directions. Sage¬ 
brush and cactus now dispute the way where once 
mule-teams dragged their heavy loads through 
blinding clouds of dust. Near to what had at one 
time been the business center a pretentious-looking 
adobe structure stands facing an open space over¬ 
grown with briers. The dust lies thick on the 
broad flight of wooden steps that leads to its main 
entrance, over which “ The Windsor, ” painted in 
black letters, is still clearly legible; it coats the 
railings in front and clings to the sills of the door; 
it crusts the windows and adheres to the tattered 
curtains inside. Unheeded it covers the face of 
the big mirror behind the bar and rests undisturbed 
among the glasses left where they had last been 
used. Various articles of furniture are scattered 
about the premises; an overturned chair lies in the 
middle of the floor, and others stand about a num¬ 
ber of small tables at the far end of the room. A 
corner of a pool-table is visible thru the open door 
of an adjoining room aod the dial of a clock peeps 
from a shelf on the wall. Cobwebs darken the 
windows and hide in the silent halls; they hang 
from the crumbling ceilings and swing in the open 
doors. Within and without dust, drought, and 
desolation everywhere. 

Twenty years before, Jacob City had been a 
thriving mining-camp. Lead was then selling for 
nearly five dollars and silver at over a dollar and 
164 


JACOB CITY 


a quarter. The ores that were mined in the neigh¬ 
borhood returned a handsome profit when shipped 
to Salt Lake City, and good wages were paid the 
miners. But the price of both lead and silver had 
declined steadily, and with it the prosperity of the 
camp. 

Mine after mine shut down, and only those pro¬ 
ducing the richest ores continued operations. Soon 
they were compelled to close, and many of the in¬ 
habitants, who had held on in hope of a change for 
the better, found themselves too poor to pay for 
transportation elsewhere, and were obliged to leave 
their belongings and foot it to other diggings. 

Now no footfall ever resounds through its silent 
streets; unmolested, the coyotes sleep through the 
heat of the day among the tinsel and faded finery, 
where red-shirted miners were wont to ogle their 
favorites and “ set up the wine ” between the acts 
at Doolan’s Opera-House; unharmed, the badgers 
burrow and delve in the public square outside, and 
jack-rabbits dodge in the dust as the sun goes 
down. None remains of the crowds that swaggered 
and drank, gambled and fought, from day to day 
save the silent few who years ago went to their 
long sleep on the slope of the hill. 

Scarcely discernible amid the gray sage-brush 
that covers a sandy knoll, a few rough slabs and 
pieces of rotten wood mark the forlorn resting- 
place of the long-since-forgotten dead. As the 
165 


JACOB CITY 


dusk deepens, shadowy shapes steal forth into the 
night and invisible feet tread the narrow streets. 
Once more the lights of ‘‘The Windsor” flicker 
and flare from the narrow windows, and bunched 
in the little square outside men loiter in idle 
groups. An energetic brass band, perched on Dool- 
an’s balcony, rends the air with strident music, 
as if to make up in vigorous action for its paucity 
of numbers. 

Across the street and a little farther down the 
light from two huge torches plays on the features 
of a resplendent individual, who is painting in 
glowing terms the virtue of his great elixir. Gold 
eagles take the place of buttons on his long blue 
frock coat, and his wide, bespangled sombrero is 
said to have cost five hundred Mexican dollars. 
He had arrived in town that morning in a coach 
drawn by six magnificent horses, with a vision of 
blond fluffiness and peachblow at his side that set 
the town agog. Nick Terhune had been heard to 
say that the doctor’s wife could give cards and 
spades and little casino to the queen of the Mardi 
Gras in New Orleans and then beat her out for 
beauty. 

The pair are quartered at the Windsor, where 
they have paid a fabulous price for the use of the 
parlor and best bedroom of that “ mansion of com¬ 
fort and elegance, ” as the local paper put it. Bills 
have been distributed during the day, announcing 
166 


JACOB CITY 


that “ a grand free open-air performance will take 
place every evening during the coming week, at 
eight o’clock, in which will appear some of the 
world’s greatest artists. ” A stage has been erected, 
and the beauty of the morning, assisted by the 
lesser lights of the aggregation, has drawn a crowd 
that is proving a profitable mine to the illustrious 
doctor, who smiles blandly as he scans the faces 
before him and with marvelous dexterity deals out 
his “ cure-all ” in exchange for the dollars of the 
eager miners. 

Nothing escapes his keen scrutiny, and, as if 
gifted with the powers of divination, ere scarce 
desire has given birth to decision in the mind of 
some hesitating applicant the doctor has taken in 
the situation, and almost before his victim realizes 
it he has parted with his dollars and is happy in 
the possession of the wonderful nostrum. 

The doctor has studied human nature to some 
purpose, and as the wavering light of the torches 
reveals from time to time the features and attitude 
of the various individuals before him he reads them 
as he w'ould the pages of an open book. 

Men of many lands and divers races are there, 
some from remote corners of the earth, each bear¬ 
ing the distinctive features of the country that has 
given him birth, yet all having one resemblance in 
common indelibly stamped upon their features, in¬ 
dicative of the dominant passion of the community 
167 


JACOB CITY 


—the thirst for gold. Fair-haired Swedes with 
ruddy complexions and rather placid, good-natured 
faces; Finlanders pale almost to sallowness, large- 
limbed and loose-join ted, with dust-colored hair 
and beards; indolent Mexicans with restless black 
eyes and the eternal cigarette; sturdy, hard-fea¬ 
tured Scots; robust, dogmatic Englishmen, and the 
ubiquitous representative of the Emerald Isle, jostle 
one another as they come and go. Representatives 
as readily recognizable from the various parts of 
the Union are not wanting to complete the collec¬ 
tion. 

At last the doctor deems it wise to close his per¬ 
formance for the night, and after a final song he 
makes his announcement of the program for the 
next evening. 

“Bum go, that, mate,” remarks a miner to his 
companion who has been watching the dollars flow 
into the doctor’s pocket. “All the fools ben’t 
dead yet, ” he continues as they move up the street. 
“Whisky’s good enough for me—take somethin’.” 

The bar of the Windsor is doing its usual brisk 
business as the men step in, and it is some time 
before they are waited on. At last the bartender 
turns to them, and as he does so a big man with 
massive shoulders and brawny limbs, whose wants 
he has just attended to, brings down his glass with 
a crash on the bar and stands staring with wide- 
open eyes apparently at something just at his 
168 


JACOB CITY 


elbow. His face is ghastly, liis lips twitch convul¬ 
sively, and beads of perspiration gather on his 
brow. “The tenderfoot woman! ” he gasps in a 
hoarse whisper. The clatter of glass as the bar¬ 
tender sweeps the pieces off the bar seems to recall 
him. “Busted a glass? Well, ’tain’t’s if I 
couldn’t pay for it.” 

“That’s all right, Hank,” remarks the barten¬ 
der, sliding another glass toward him. The big 
man fills it with brandy, and draining it at a gulp 
he throws down a dollar and lurches from the 
room. 

“Got ’em bad to-night,” observes the bartender 
as he takes the miners’ orders. “ The tenderfoot 
woman’s been in her grave more’n a year. How’s 
that? Oh, she’s alius called that ever since the 
day she struck camp with a curly-headed kid in 
her arms. Nobody ever know’d anything ’bout 
her; give out her name was Brown; but nobody 
b’lieved that, for she never seemed to know that 
any one was talkin’ to her when they called her 
by that name.” 

The tenderfoot woman had kept her secret weil 
and had taken it with her to the grave. Bill, the 
stage-driver, said the day she arrived that “ she’d 
rode the hull way from Salt Lake and never spoke 
to any one.” Once, he confessed, he asked her 
“ to have somethin’ to eat, when they’d stopped for 
dinner, but she’d only shook her head and dug up 
169 


JACOB CITY 


somethin’ for the kid from a paper box she car¬ 
ried.” 

How the miners laughed when it became noised 
abroad that she was goin’ to “ take in washin’ ”! 
“ Old gag, that! She’d wash for a livin’! ” 

But wash she did, and soon Sam Lee, the China¬ 
man, and his satellites were glad to work for her. 

When the miners found she meant business they 
fairly swamped her with work, and she prospered 
and was happy—happy in her boy, the light of her 
eyes. Men knew that, as he grew to manhood, he 
was oftener gambling than working; that he was 
lazy, and tho fair to look on, he was “no good,” 
as they expressed it. None ever told the mother 
so, however, and she saw in him only what was 
manly and brave. 

One Christmas night it happened that he “ sat 
in a game” at the Windsor with a number of mi¬ 
ners, among whom was big Hank Hardy, a noted 
“ bad man ” of the camp. No one would say just 
how it occurred; some hinted that “Curly,” as he 
was called, had stooped for some matches that had 
dropped to the floor and had seen cards on Hank’s 
knee; but however that may have been, in the row 
that followed Curly was shot thru the heart. No 
cards were found on Hank, and he was acquitted 
afterward on the ground of self-defense. 

The day that Curly was buried the tenderfoot 
woman had encountered Hank in the street. 

170 


JACOB CITY 


Drawing herself up to her full height, she con¬ 
fronted him as he tried to slink past her, and 
pointing with trembling finger, she said: “His 
blood be on your head and the curse of Cain be 
yours! ” 

“Don’t believe Hank’ll last the year out,” re¬ 
marked the bartender as he made change for the 
miner a few moments later. “ He’s breakin’ up 
fast.” 

As the two men leave the Windsor an old man 
with flowing beard and iron-gray hair toils heavily 
up the street. He has a big basket on his arm, 
and he evidently feels it heavy, for he changes it 
frequently from arm to arm, and every now and 
then he sets it down to rest himself. For a mile 
or more after he has cleared the outskirts of the 
town he climbs slowly upward; then following a 
trail that branches off from the more traveled road, 
he doubles back along a ridge that faces the town 
from the west, and crossing the summit at a point 
nearly opposite that from where he had started, 
he follows the farther side of the ridge to where it 
ends in a rocky butte that overlooks the valley and 
Great Salt Lake in the distance. 

The moon has risen now, and the heavens are 
clear and cloudless. After disposing of the con¬ 
tents of the basket in a “ lean-to ” against the side 
of a small cabin, perched under the shadow of the 
butte, the old man brings out a chair and seats 
171 


JACOB CITY 


himself by the open door. He is breathing heav¬ 
ily and his limbs tremble. It had been a long 
pull and the basket seemed heavier than usual. 
Many times a year for the past five years he has 
carried that basket back and forth from the town. 
Every winter has found him hard at work in the 
mines, and every summer has seen him prospect¬ 
ing the neighboring hills. So it has been for five, 
ten, twenty, forty years, in many parts of the 
country, since before the days of ’49 and Cali¬ 
fornia. 

At first, when others had struck it rich, he had 
wished them well and smiled when he heard them 
talk of what they were going to do now that they 
“had money to burn.” His turn would come, he 
felt sure of that, and then—he had scarcely dared 
think of that! But as the days rolled into months, 
and the months into years, and the years stretched 
away behind him like a long, dusty road, in which 
there had been no turning nor tarrying, he began 
to lose faith in that future which had seemed so 
full of promise. Hope died out in his heart, and 
there remained of the wayward fires of youth but 
a flickering flame and the gray ashes of old age. 
From the grave of buried hopes resignation had 
arisen with healing toufch, and whispered that all 
was for the best; yet it required all the old man’s 
stedfast faith to quiet the tumultuous rush of feel¬ 
ing that came over him at the thought of what 
172 


JACOB CITY 


might have been. A yearning for the love and 
companionship that had been denied him filled his 
heart with vain regret for the long years spent in 
fruitless toil. Had it not been wiser? Ah, who 
can see the future! 

To-night, as the moonlight softened the outline 
of the hills and bathed the valley below in a silver 
sheen, a flood of recollection carried him three thou¬ 
sand miles away. In fancy he could see the little 
Hew England village in which he had been born. 
There, at the cross-roads, were the hay-scales 
where he used to play “I spy,” and, just beyond, 
the red bridge that spanned the river. How white 
the houses looked! Yes, he remembered now, they 
were all painted either light yellow or white, and 
many of the latter had green shutters; he had 
never seen the like elsewhere. Opposite the post- 
office, a little farther up the street, was the village 
green with the baseball diamond, where the boys 
from “ up the road ” and “ down the road ” used to 
battle on Saturday afternoons, and once in a while, 
in the early evening, their elders indulged in a 
game of quoits. 

And there was the “ meetin’-house.” He re¬ 
membered when he had found a key which would 
unlock its basement door, and how for a long year 
he had kept his secret with a proud consciousness 
of what he could tell if he only would. There on 
the brow of the hill was a rambling old house with 
173 


JACOB CITY 


a grape-vine covering one end and a huge chimney 
thrust thru the center of the roof. The richest 
man in the county had lived there—said to be 
worth $50,000; and there, in later years, in that 
garden with its old-fashioned flowers, a pair of 
hazel eyes had looked into his as he had said good- 
by. He could see the graceful figure, the clear- 
cut features, and the questioning, half-reproachful 
look with which the announcement of his coming 
departure had been received. 

The May air is once more sweet with the per¬ 
fume of the arbutus, and he feels a mighty tugging 
at his heart-strings as he remembers that mute ap¬ 
peal. Yes, she loved him then—he knew it now; 
and he would meet her there—there, beyond the 
“Great Divide,” where in the sunlight of undying 
love there blooms the snow-white flower of immor¬ 
tality. 

The face of the dying man lights up with joy, 
and peacefully, as one who falls asleep, his eyes 
close and his spirit takes its flight. 

Down in the town the night wears on. At three 
o’clock the streets are deserted, but in the Wind¬ 
sor barroom there is a hum of many voices, and 
men are seated at the various tables engrossed in 
divers games. Suddenly, like a thnuderbolt, a wild¬ 
eyed man bursts into the room swinging a huge 
“ 44 ” in circles above his head. It is at full cock, 
174 




Wheeling suddenly, he fires point-blank. 














JACOB CITY 


and as he lowers his arm the muzzle seems to cover 
every man in the room. One look at his frenzied 
face is sufficient, and with one accord there is a 
rush for the doors. Men who would have fought 
like wildcats over their game tumble over one an¬ 
other in their eagerness to escape. 

“ If I’ve got to die, I’m goin’ to have company! ” 
yells the maniac, flourishing his weapon. 

The bartender peeps from behind the bar and 
wonders whether he can reach his gun; but at his 
first movement the man in the middle of the room 
turns his head quickly and listens. The bartender 
drops on his knees and fairly holds his breath. 
The minutes seem hours, but at length he hears 
footsteps on the sidewalk—pit-pat, pit-pat—and 
now they enter the room. 

“ Drop that gun! ” 

The man in the middle of the room glances first 
at the sheriff, who has spoken and who is imme¬ 
diately in front of him, and then at his deputy, 
some ten feet to his right. For an instant he hesi¬ 
tates, and then wheeling suddenly he fires point- 
blank at the latter. The deputy’s hat falls to the 
ground with a bullet-hole in it, and at the same 
moment he and the sheriff both fire. 

“You’re not hurt, are you, Steele?” asks the 
sheriff a moment later as he stoops over the body 
of the man who had fallen at his feet. 

“ No. Poor devil, he must ’ve been dead crazy.” 

175 


JACOB CITY 


The body is removed to an adjoining room and 
in a short time the games are again in progress. 
Nobody ever knows more about the man they bur¬ 
ied in a nameless grave next day than that he had 
been in town for several days, that he had been 
drinking hard, and that he had said he had “ been 
sheep-herdin’.” 

“Lucky thing that Ward and the deputy hap¬ 
pened to be in Shorty’s, wasn’t it?” remarks a 
man to his neighbor. “Don’t believe any one 
else’d had the nerve to tackle that chap.” 

As the speaker finishes a deep rumbling wakes 
the echoes of the hills. The window-cases rattle, 
the lights go out, the crowds that have thronged 
the night scatter to the four corners of the earth— 
all except the silent few who creep back to their 
sandy beds on the hill; and dust and desolation 
reign once more in Jacob City. 

“Hello! Guess I must ’ve been asleep,” ex¬ 
claims Austin Haywood, rousing himself from 
where he had been resting in the shade of an old 
bunk-house, near the “ Hidden Treasure ” mine. 
“Storm cornin’ up, too, and I’m not likely to see 
Stockton before twelve o’clock,” he continues as a 
peal of thunder sounds in the distance. “ Curious 
dream, that,” he muses as he unhitches a horse 
standing near. “But if lead keeps up the old 
mine’s worth leasing.” 


176 


Selma the Soprano 


By 

Mabel Wagnalls 

Illustrations 

By 

Freeland A. Carter 


12 


177 








SELMA THE SOPRANO. 

11 1 hold it true that thoughts are things, 

Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings ; 

And after you have quite forgot 
Or all outgrown some vanished thought, 

Back to your mind to make its home 
A dove or raven it will come.” 

•—Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

INTRODUCTION. 

As a background to the situations of the ensuing 
narrative the reader must be acquainted with an 
event that occurred many years before in Kings¬ 
ton, Tenn. A woman named Margaret Holmes, 
who had been convicted of the murder of her hus¬ 
band, was sentenced to be hanged on the morning 
of June 3, 18—. The day arrived, the crowd as¬ 
sembled, and the woman was led to her doom. 
They say she mounted the steps without support, 
and faced the throng without wincing. She had 
left her long brown hair loose and flowing, and 
wore a plain white cotton gown. When the sheriff 
bade her speak her last words, she replied: 

“ There is nothing to say.” 

But then a strange thing occurred. As tho pos- 
179 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


sessed by a sudden idea, she began singing, simply 
as a child— 

“ Mid pleasures and palaces, tho we may roam.” 

She did not seem to care whether the people liked 
it, or even listened. Her manner was like one 
singing to herself. 

But the rough crowd did like it, and listened 
with growing intensity, for her voice was strong 
and clear, and her last heart-throbs seemed to be 
finding expression in this sweet song. 

“A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there.” 

She sank to her knees, and the words seemed a 
prayer. 

It must indeed have been wonderful and heart- 
moving to see this pale woman with fettered hands 
and the gallows for a background singing of 
Home. 

The effect on her hearers became greater with 
every phrase. Not a movement or a whisper 
marred the spell. 

“And the birds singing gaily 
That came at my call,— 

Give me them with that peace of mind 
Dearer than all.” 

The last sweet words of the ballad fell from her 
lips. There were birds singing about her, and all 
nature seemed to breathe of joy; but birds and 
music do not concern the law. 

180 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


The hangman stepped forward and laid his hand 
upon the woman’s shoulder. It was at this mo¬ 
ment, so we are told, that a force mightier than 
the law began to reveal itself. 

There was a murmur, at first slight, but soon 
augmented by many voices, and then a movement. 
Like one creature the crowd swayed forward, and 
a cry arose louder and higher—“ Release her! ” 

They clambered on to the scaffold and wrenched 
the rope from the sheriff’s hand. Then their im¬ 
pulse grew to a fury. They tore the rope apart, 
and cut it and stamped upon it. The gallows too 
was attacked. They broke it, and split it, and 
chipped it, and whittled it until no semblance of 
a gallows remained. 

The sheriff and jailer were powerless, and there 
was nothing to do but lead the prisoner back to 
jail. 

The affair was talked about far and near, and 
ere long there was presented to the governor such 
an overwhelming petition for pardon that he could 
not do otherwise than grant it—as her conviction 
had been upon circumstantial evidence only. 

We learn that after the pardon she lived with 
her ‘only child, a boy named Arthur, in a small 
house on the outskirts of the town. 

Years went by. The murder remained a mys¬ 
tery, and Margaret Holmes’s innocence was £till 
unproved when she died, some ten years later. 

181 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


After burying his mother, Arthur, now grown 
to manhood, moved to Knoxville, the nearest town 
of any size. Thereafter only investigating law¬ 
yers, and some few participants of the scene, ever 
referred to it. But this picture of his mother’s 
terrible trial was indelibly impressed upon Ar¬ 
thur’s mind. The shadows of dead men’s deeds 
are like those of a dying day: they measure much 
greater than the forms that cast them. The dark¬ 
ness of a crime reaches far down the avenue of 
Time, and the people who come near it change 
their life’s course to avoid it. For we are timid 
mortals, who quake and shake at shadows. 

CHAPTER I. 

Arthur Holmes was destined to succeed, for he 
was one who took life seriously and wasted no 
time. He entered the printing-office at Knoxville, 
and in two years had attained an editorial position. 
And with it all he was frugal and of simple tastes. 

He rented rooms in the house of a crippled old 
lady whose only maintenance was the income thus 
derived, and whose only solace was an occasional 
visit from thoughtful friends. Arthur frequently 
spent an hour in her presence, reading or talking 
to pass the time. It was here that he first met 
Selma. 

She was singing before he entered the room, and 
182 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


when he knocked at the door he heard the inter¬ 
rupted phrase end in a dainty musical shriek of 
startled surprise. Then followed the merriest kind 
of a sweet-toned laugh accompanying the light 
footsteps of the singer, who came forward to open 
the door. 

It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that 
Arthur Holmes was in love with Selma before he 
saw her. But when she stood before him and 
opened her big brown eyes with surprise to see 
this handsome young man—why, then Arthur 
thought her adorable. 

The invalid introduced the young people, and 
told all about Selma: how she had just returned 
from the East after a two-years' course of music, 
and how, thoughtful as ever, she had lost no time 
in coming to sing for her helpless old friend. 

“ Do sing on,” implored our young editor;—“un¬ 
less you object to my listening? ” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Selma. “ What shall 
I sing? Do you like ‘Carmen'?” And then, 
without waiting for an answer, she commenced the 
“Habenera.” She imparted such an amount of 
witchery to this wild gypsy melody that one could 
almost hear the castanets and see the dancing. 

When the song had come to an end, Arthur, 
thoroughly enraptured, murmured: “Please sing 
more.” 

Then she sang an “Ave Maria.” If before she 
183 


SELMA THE SOPKANO 


had looked like a gypsy, now she looked like a 
nun, as, standing near the window, the light of 
the setting sun illumined her expressive features. 
But she was not conscious of this, nor striving for 
any effect, for she had become lost in her singing 
—the enchantment of sweet melody. The gather¬ 
ing twilight enwrapped her in a veil of mystery, and 
her listeners, too, seemed enthralled by the power 
of the hour and the music. The last song she sang 
was the sweetest of all—a German ballad, “ Ich 
liebe dich” (“I love you”). One might suppose 
this selection was prompted by some impulse of 
coquetry; but Selma had no such thought. The 
song is a famous one, and had merely suggested 
itself. Once launched upon its tender strain, Selma 
sang with her soul in the words. They were Ger¬ 
man, however, and evidently not understood by 
the invalid at least, for she said when the song 
was done: “It seemed to be telling a beautiful 
story. ” 

But Arthur was silent. This method of appro¬ 
bation was rather puzzling to Selma. It led her 
to infer that he understood neither German nor 
music. 

She presently started to go, and softly sang the 
opening words of the love duo from “ Faust ”— 

“I must hasten away,—it groweth late.” 

She continued to warble the melody as she was 
184 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


putting on her hat. When she came to the pause 
where the tenor voice should come in, great was 
her surprise to hear the part taken up and quietly 
hummed by Arthur. She turned around, smiling, 
and quickly joined in with the soprano music. 
Arthur, too, was smiling as they finished with a 
vociferous “ la-la ” this great and grand duet. 

“Then you do know music,” announced Selma, 
evidently pleased at the discovery. 

“Just enough to love it,” was the more modest 
than truthful answer, for Arthur was naturally 
musical, and had learned a good deal of the art. 

They both said “ Good-day ” to the invalid, and 
Arthur accompanied Selma home. He talked of 
the few operas he had heard and the many he 
wanted to hear, and Selma promised to sing for 
him all of her best-known arias. She found out 
also that he knew German, and had understood 
every word of “Ich liebe dich.” 

All this during their first short walk together. 
They saw each other frequently after this—most 
often at the house of their mutual friend, the 
invalid; but sometimes, too, at Selma’s home. 
Here, with her piano and all her books, they had 
glorious hours of music. Harmony itself seemed 
to be drawing them together. She sang to him 
and taught him her favorite songs, and she told 
him and described to him all the operas she knew. 
Of these, “ Hamlet ” was the one she loved best. 

185 


SELMA THE SOPEANO 


“ It is music to enthrall one! ” she impulsively 
exclaimed, as they were turning over the score one 
day. “ The opera differs from the play, you know; 
it has in it the scene where Ophelia dies—the mad 
scene—the most beautiful thing you ever heard or 
imagined. It abounds in the vagaries of a de¬ 
mented mind—mingled joy and sorrow; tlio really 
the saddest of all is where she tries to be gay, for 
throughout all the music there is a ring of perpet¬ 
ual pain.” 

Here Selma softly played one part and sweetly 
sang the melody. Arthur was turning the music 
for her, and they both together went on through the 
scene. It was a fascinating task. Selma would 
hum and sing and play, or perhaps read aloud the 
text, while Arthur, standing beside her, would also 
sing snatches, or whistle a phrase, or beat the time 
as the occasion required. 

More often, when she knew it not, he was look¬ 
ing at her instead of at the score. He longed to 
touch her wavy hair or the curve of her pretty ear. 
Sometimes he leaned down very near—so as to see 
the fine print of the music. Not “ mad ” nor “ sad, ” 
but only glad seemed the music that day to him. 

Where Selma remembered the words she would 
stand up and sing, interspersing her performance 
with bits of description as her imagination dic¬ 
tated. 

"Ophelia tries to sing an old ballad; but the 
186 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


poor girl has scarcely begun before she forgets all 
about it, and breaks out into a wild, ringing laugh 
and then into passionate sobs. It is all done 
in music, you know—perfect rhythm and har¬ 
mony.” 

Selma then sang for him that wonderful staccato 
laugh of the opera with its brilliant high note fol¬ 
lowed by the moaning, melodious minor sob. 

“ I could cry as I sing it, ” she declared impres¬ 
sively, —“ the music reveals so much. It is grief 
without hope and joy without memory alterna¬ 
ting in the mind of the mad girl.” 

Arthur was silent for a moment, and then he 
spoke quite thoughtfully. 

“Do you know, the music makes the plot all 
wrong! If Ophelia sang anything like that, do 
you know what the result must have been? ” 

He had clasped Selma’s hand in his, and was 
looking tenderly into her eyes. 

“ If she sang like that, I say, Hamlet must have 
loved her and clung to her in spite of his father’s 
ghost! ” 

He pressed her soft hand to his lips; but at the 
same time, even as he spoke the word, something 
seemed to clutch at his heart—a memory, a fact, 
a phantom: his own father had been murdered! 
Why did he think of this now? 

For one moment Arthur seemed far away from 
Selma, and a chill silence encompassed him. But 
187 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


soon, with a distinct effort, he released himself 
from the thought. 

He stepped nearer to Selma, and heard her say¬ 
ing softly, as she fingered the piano with her hand 
that was free: 

“But Hamlet does love Ophelia even more in 
the opera than in the play. See, this is his love- 
song—the most beautiful theme in the opera.” 
And she sang quietly this lovely melody, which 
is indeed the center-stone of the musical crown 
that Thomas has given to Shakespeare’s “ Ham¬ 
let.” 

“ Doubt that the stars are fire, 

Doubt that the sun doth move, 

Doubt Truth to be a liar, 

But never doubt I love ! ” 

“ It is glorious! ” murmured Arthur. “ Sing it 
again—do! ” 

She repeated it, and he sang with her; and after 
the last line—“never doubt I love”—he softly 
added, “you!” 

It was scarcely more than a whisper; but Selma 
turned as she heard it, and their eyes met in one 
glad glance of recognition. 

“ Selma, how I love you! ” he softly exclaimed. 
“Your music transports me! I am in heaven 
when I hear you.” 

He drew her gently toward him, and as he did 
so gazed on her face with a look of absolute rever- 
188 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


ence. Her music was to him like something di¬ 
vine, and she herself a precious treasure. 

“Selma, can you know how happy I am?” 

“Yes, I know,” was her impulsive answer, 
“ for I too am so happy! Arthur, it seems as tho 
we have always loved each other! ” 

She hid her face on his shoulder, and he stroked 
her hair and kissed it between the words that he 
murmured: 

“It is true. We have needed no words to un¬ 
derstand, but have read each other like an open 
book. You must have known my feelings from 
the first.” 

And then she again answered: “Yes! And 
your presence affected me so! I wanted to be 
near you every moment. To have you the other 
side of the room seemed far away.” 

She was looking up now, and her face was quite 
aglow with the earnest joy of her words. “ Arthur, 
it is so restful to be near you! ” She looked long 
and steadily at the face she loved. She admired 
his deep, thoughtful eyes that always told so much 
more than his words—tho when he spoke his vi¬ 
brant voice had never failed to thrill her as it did 
now. 

“ I believe, Selma dear, that such love as ours is 
a gift that is seldom bestowed; it is something to 
cherish and guard. We were meant for each 
other. It can not be otherwise.” 

189 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


And all that afternoon the music of love in their 
hearts was attuned to the perfect harmony of their 
natures. They really believed that Heaven was 
guiding them, and the angels were smiling upon 
them. Perhaps they were smiling—sadly—at the 
paucity of human joy. 

It is true, indeed, that Arthur and Selma loved 
each other in a way that others who had never ex¬ 
perienced it could not even comprehend. And so 
Selma’s mother did not realize the extent of the 
pain she was causing when she vigorously opposed 
their engagement. She was a Southern woman, 
somewhat proud of her aristocratic lineage, and 
particularly proud of her only daughter. It is not 
surprising that Mrs. Marvin’s blood ran cold at the 
idea of Selma’s marrying a man whose mother had 
been convicted of murder, sentenced to be hanged, 
and actually stood under the gallows, and who, tho 
released, had never been proven innocent. 

Selma had not taken this view of the matter, 
and it was no easy task to disabuse her of the idea 
that loving a man was sufficient reason for marry¬ 
ing him. It is doubtful whether she ever changed 
her mind on this point; but certain it is that after 
three days of tears and arguments, Mrs. Marvin 
persuaded Selma that she was too young to know 
her own mind, and that it is always best to obey 
one’s mother. 

Mrs. Marvin dictated a letter of polite dismissal 
190 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


to Arthur, and then sent her daughter back to New 
* York. 

Selma grew a little thin and a little pale; but 
she was not given to complaining, and hence no 
one fully realized the heartache she endured. 
There were times when she could not work or talk 
or sleep. 

As for Arthur, the contents of that letter came 
upon him like a crushing blow. Strange, how one 
small sheet of paper can carry such a heavy weight! 
For the previous month he had been living in a 
perfect enchantment of music, and Selma’s spirit 
of loveliness had filled his soul every hour. He 
had been carried as in a dream to his proposal. 
But this letter was a cruel awakening. He was 
brought back to thought and to pain—a pain that 
sank deep in the old, old groove, recalling the past 
and his mother. Is it any wonder that he divined 
the reason, and that something of bitterness came 
into his heart as the first sting of pain wore away? 

CHAPTER II. 

The winter months wore by. Selma’s busy life 
in the rushing city served to divert her thoughts, 
but her feelings toward Arthur did not change, 
altho she tried earnestly to forget. 

But now, after all her endeavor, Fate strangely 
interfered. The unlooked-for, the undreamed-of 
occurred. 


191 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


The innocence of Arthur Holmes's mother was 
suddenly proved and established. 

Selma’s first intimation of the fact came through 
a newspaper notice which to her eyes seemed em¬ 
blazoned in magnified letters. 

This is what she read: 

A Tennessee Mystery Solved. 

After fifteen years of silence, a convict in Dakota con¬ 
fesses on his death-bed to the murder of Mathew Holmes, 
a crime which at the time led to the most exciting trial 
and dramatic culmination ever described in fact, or 
dreamed of in fiction. 

The present solution of the long mystery, far from sim¬ 
plifying the affair, adds another wonder to the tale, and 
causes us to shudder at the possibilities of mistake from 
circumstantial evidence. 

Mathew Holmes was murdered in Kingston, Tenn., Oct. 
12, 18—, in the front room of his own home, at six 
o’clock in the evening. A neighbor, hearing his cry, 
rushed into the house scarcely two minutes later—and 
there saw the dying man on the floor and his wife leaning 
over him, while the weapon (a knife from the supper-table) 
was near by. 

She told an incoherent story of having just come in from 
the back yard, and, hearing a scuffle in the front room, 
had rushed forward to interfere between her husband and 
a strange man whom she did not recognize. Just then her 
husband reeled and gave a cry, whereupon the stranger 
clambered out of the open side window. 

This was her story; but no one heeded it, because 
Mathew Holmes, with his dying breath, pointed directly 
toward her, saying, “There’s the one that did it!” He 
lived only a few moments. 


192 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


Margaret Holmes was at once arrested. Her story was 
investigated somewhat, but no one could testify to having 
seen any stranger about town. And the dying man’s as¬ 
sertion weighed so heavily against her that she was 
promptly convicted and sentenced to be hanged on the 
third of June following. 

Everything was made ready for the execution, but at the 
last moment there was a sudden revolution of public feel¬ 
ing in her favor, caused by the touching words of a song 
which she sang on the gallows platform. Her release was 
demanded, and she was eventually pardoned by the gov¬ 
ernor. 

In the light of later facts her song seems to have been a 
direct inspiration, and her escape truly providential. 

It now appears that her story was entirely correct. A 
tramp convict who has lately died in the prison hospital 
at Yankton, Dakota, leaves a confession to the following 
effect: 

He was wandering through Kingston on the evening of 
Oct. 12, 18—, when, as he peered in the window of a 
low frame house, he saw a man counting over some money, 
which he presently left lying on the table. The would-be 
robber then slipped in at the window and tried to grab the 
money ; but he was discovered by the owner, and a sharp 
struggle ensued, in which the latter was stabbed to death 
with one of his own table-knives. The murderer escaped 
by the way he had entered, just as a woman rushed in. . . . 

It is easy for us now to understand how the dying man 
in his blind agony did not note this change of persons. 
He only pointed where his assailant had been, and thereby 
denounced his own wife. 

To Col. Benjamin Ellis, a Chattanooga lawyer, is due 
the greatest credit in obtaining and verifying this confes¬ 
sion before the convict expired. 

Margaret Holmes did not live to see her vindication, but 
13 193 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


it comes as a blessing to her son, who expresses himself 
as eternally indebted to Colonel Ellis for being the means 
of clearing his mother’s name. 

As Selma grasped the full meaning of this won¬ 
drous news, she was possessed with a glorious, 
thrilling joy. All the old love and pent-up emo¬ 
tions arose to assert themselves, and her heart 
throbbed wildly with a supreme gladness. 

Then tears filled her eyes as a sense of the in¬ 
justice under which Arthur had suffered, and 
which, too, had caused her own sorrow, welled up 
within her. 

She was resolved that nothing should now stand 
in the way of their happiness. She would write 
Arthur at once, and explain everything: how she 
had been forced to leave him, against all the 
promptings of her own heart, just because of his 
mother’s history. 

But it was easier to plan such a letter than to 
write it. In black and white it looked cold¬ 
blooded to connect, however distantly, thoughts of 
love and thoughts of murder. She wrote and tore 
up half a dozen letters without sending one. The 
natural outcome of all this perturbation was the 
thought of going home herself. Her term of study 
was nearly over. Why not go now and surprise 
not only Arthur, but every one? 

Selma decided to do this. She packed her trunk 
that day, and started home the next. 

194 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


The journey seemed long, but ever brighter as 
she neared the state and station where Arthur 
dwelt. Her heart was bounding with joy as she 
planned their meeting and words of greeting. 

Knoxville was reached at last. Selma attended 
to her baggage, and then started to walk from the 
depot home. She tried to be wise and patient. 
After seeing her mother she would send for Arthur, 
and he should call that evening. Thus she planned. 

But suddenly it occurred to her that her way 
went past his office. She was in front of the 
building now. How easy it would be to go in and 
see him at once! Selma looked at her watch and 
thought of the long hours she would otherwise 
have to wait. She was conscious also of appearing 
well in her new hat and traveling gown. So with¬ 
out further thought she entered. 

An office boy came forward to ask her name and 
whom she wished to see. He caught her answer 
indistinctly, for the printing-presses were going at 
full force and made talking difficult; but he un¬ 
derstood that she wished to see Mr. Holmes. After 
a few moments’ absence he returned with the re¬ 
quest that she follow him. 

He led her to the door of one of the various 
offices and bade her enter. 

She was about to do so when her way was in¬ 
tercepted by another young lady who was leaving 
the office. 


195 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


The stranger was well dressed and fine-looking, 
and especially remarkable for her beautiful flaxen 
hair. The lady was plainly aware of this distin¬ 
guishing point of beauty, for she wore at the side 
of her throat, nestled close to her yellow hair, a 
big bunch of buttercups. Selma had opportunity 
to observe all this, for the two women stood facing 
each other a moment in that awkward uncertainty 
about the right of way. Then they both smiled, 
and finally passed each other to the right. 

Selma entered the office and the boy closed the 
door behind her. Mr. Holmes was looking over 
some papers on his desk, but he presently glanced 
around, and then jumped up with astonishment. 
“Selma! you here!” He was surprised into 
speaking her name with some of the old tender¬ 
ness. But he quickly recalled himself. “ The 
boy made a mistake in the name. I thought it 
was one of our contributors.” 

He spoke rapidly, and seemed somewhat un¬ 
nerved. 

Selma came forward with beaming face and 
soulful eyes. 

“ 1 have come all the way from New York, 
Arthur, to—see you!” It was not exactly what 
she had planned to say, but it told a good deal. 

Mr. Holmes now spoke more reservedly. “ That 
is kind of you, I am sure; but I am greatly sur¬ 
prised. You must admit that I have had little 
196 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


reason to suppose you would ever make so long a 
journey on my account. ” 

“Oh, Arthur—do not speak so coldly! You 
don’t understand. Wait till I have told you all.” 

Her heart was beating so fast that she was al¬ 
most breathless and could not go on; so Arthur 
again spoke—not unkindly, but sadly. 

“ When I once, long ago, did commence to ad¬ 
dress you with a different tone and meaning, you 
silenced me, Selma, in a letter I have never for¬ 
gotten. Why are you now surprised? ” 

“It is not my fault that I sent you that letter.” 
Selma’s tones were impressive. “Mama dictated 
every word. Do you hear this, Arthur? Do you 
take it all in? You don’t know what I have gone 
through! ” She gave him no chance to interrupt. 
“ If you did, you would pity me so! Have you 
ever suffered—Arthur? Do you know what it is 
to work, and walk and talk with always one 
thought in your mind, one pain in your heart; al¬ 
ways longing for what might have been, and re¬ 
gretting what you’ve done? ” 

Selma hesitated a moment, and then continued : 
“Mama would not hear of our being engaged 

because—you know-” 

Arthur finished the sentence for her. “ Yes, I 
know; because of my—mother.” He winced vis¬ 
ibly under this memory. 

Selma hurried on with her words. “But now 
197 



SELMA THE SOPRANO 


that is all cleared away—I read about it in the 
paper; and I was so happy I started home by the 
first train. And, Arthur, here I am! ” 

She laughed softly, almost hysterically, with the 
last glad words, and impulsively extended her 
hand. 

Then a great change came over Selma, for Arthur 
did not respond as she expected. 

He was silent a moment, and then spoke delib¬ 
erately : 

“ I am sorry, Selma, you have not yet heard that 
I am —engaged ! ” 

Selma stood motionless, hardly comprehending 
the full meaning of this statement. She seemed 
as one who tries to think but can not. 

“Engaged?” she repeated quietly. “When? 
how? to whom?” 

“To Miss Marion Ellis. She was here a few 
minutes ago—you probably met her at the door.” 
Arthur also spoke quietly, but it was a terrible 
moment for both. 

“Miss Ellis?” repeated Selma slowly. “Is she 
the daughter of that lawyer, Colonel Ellis, who 
helped you? ” 

Arthur nodded his head affirmatively. 

“ And she is the one who passed me at the door? ” 
Selma’s thoughts were coming faster now. “ And 
you have asked her to marry you? ” A sudden 
reckless despair came over Selma. “No, no, I 
198 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 

don’t believe it! You don’t mean it, Arthur—do 
you? ” 

The rumbling machinery without kept up a 
strange accompaniment to this climax. Arthur 
hesitated, but then replied with a calmness he did 
not feel: 

“ It is all true—quite true—and therefore this in¬ 
terview can only be painful to both of us. Let 
me entreat you, Selma, for my sake and your own, 
to end it.” 

But Selma was not to be reasoned with just yet. 
“No, not now—don’t send me away like that—it 
is too terrible! ” Her tones had vibrated with in¬ 
tensity, but now they became tremblingly beseech¬ 
ing. “Arthur, does she really love you as I do? 
And does she sing as I do? You used to love my 
voice, Arthur—don’t you remember? ” 

Remember, indeed! The voice that still sang in 
his dreams! But only the pallor of his face re¬ 
vealed the struggle within him as he stepped past 
her and said: 

“I remember all, Selma, and I remember too 
that I have asked Miss Ellis to be my wife, and 
that I respect her accordingly. Since you will not 
leave me, let me be the one to go.” 

Before he had reached the door Selma was 
there, barring his way. Her voice was tremulous 
and husky. 

“No, no—I will go, right now; I promise you.” 

199 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


There was a moment’s silence, and still she 
stood there, supporting herself against the door. 
Then she seemed to gather her strength and 
thoughts preparatory to leaving. She passed her 
hand over her brow, and as she spoke her tones 
were more calm: 

“It is over. Don’t feel too badly about me, 
Arthur, for the pain is no worse than before. . . . 
There—I am going.” 

She hesitated again, and then continued rapidly: 

“ I promise you not to utter another word, or to 
so much as touch your hand for good-by; but 
there is one thing I would ask. It is only that 
you look at me just once kindly —as you used to 
do. Even she could not object to this.” 

This request overcame all his will power. The 
old sweet tenderness that she had so loved sud¬ 
denly illumined his saddened face as he impetu¬ 
ously clasped both her hands in his and lingeringly 
gazed upon her. 

True to her promise, she made no motion or sign 
of entreaty—not even when Arthur fervently ex¬ 
claimed, in low, broken tones: 

“Selma, we have both suffered—haven’t we!” 
The blood rushed to his face as he spoke. He 
looked in her eyes once again, lovingly, longingly, 
and then with sudden effort he whispered, “ Good- 
by ! ”—and left her alone in the room. 

Selma did not weep or faint. She just stood 
200 


SELMA THE SOPKANO 


there motionless, her hands clasped tightly to¬ 
gether. Presently she became conscious of an im¬ 
pressive silence. The machinery had stopped; it 
was the hour of noon. To Selma it seemed as 
tho not only the machinery, but her own heart had 
ceased to throb; all life, the world and the uni¬ 
verse, seemed suddenly jostled out of position. 

She was looking about her, and thinking: "I 
must follow again the routine of life. I shall soon 
open this door and walk out. If I meet any one, 
I must say ‘ Good-morning! * ” 

She closed her eyes from very weariness at the 
thought. On reopening them she happened to see 
a small photograph on Arthur’s desk. It was a 
woman’s picture; and as Selma crossed the room 
for a closer view her surmise was confirmed: it 
was an admirable and beautiful likeness of Miss 
Ellis. 

Selma took the picture in her hands and looked 
long at the features. There was a peculiar droop 
to the eyelids that gave an expression of languor, 
and was very becoming to Miss Ellis. Yes, she 
was beautiful! And he had gone to her now—he 
had chosen between them! Her own picture used 
to be on this desk. He had often said it inspired 
him at his work. Now it was this new one that 
inspired him! 

A boundless envy filled for the moment Selma’s 
usually gentle nature, and bitter thoughts floated 
201 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


through her brain that frightened her as they 
passed. In a very frenzy of jealous rage she tore 
the picture asunder—tore it into fragments, as tho 
unable to destroy it enough. 

Then suddenly all this nervous energy left her, 
and sinking into a chair, she moaned aloud: 
“What am I doing, what am I thinking! It is 
only because I am so wretched, so unhappy! ” 

Her grief seemed indeed like something pressing 
down upon her. She bowed her face in her hands, 
and tried to control and collect her thoughts. 

“ It was his duty to go; he is engaged to her; 
and I must bear it. 1 must! I must ! ” 

As the weeks went by, Selma resumed her old 
life of work and study, and fought her heart’s 
battle as best she could. 

Three months later, Arthur Holmes and Marion 
Ellis were married. 

CHAPTER III. 

Work always brings its sure but slow reward, 
and so with Selma each year found her more ad¬ 
vanced in her art and more widely recognized as an 
artist. 

Her first season in public was not discouraging, 
but that is all. The following year she secured a 
church engagement. But the next winter we find 
her traveling with a celebrated concert troupe that 
202 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


ranked her next in importance to the star. The 
management were so well satisfied that they re¬ 
engaged her the following season. 

Five years had passed since the morning of that 
last interview with the only man she had ever 
loved. She had not seen him or spoken his name 
from that day till now, but this was no sign of 
forgetfulness. With some natures the greater 
the impression received, the less is the expression 
given. Selma Marvin had admirers many, but 
lovers none, tho she could sing a ballad in such a 
way as to make each individual listener think she 
was singing to him alone. 

It was the 25th of September. They had closed, 
the night before, a series of three performances in 
St. Louis, and were to appear in Memphis on the 
26th. 

The rest of the company had gone on, but Selma 
remained behind to arrange some personal matters, 
expecting to take the night train for Memphis. 

Selma never forgot that 25th of September. 
Everything went wrong from morning till night 
with no let-up. It would be needless to relate all 
the mishaps that managed to occur during that one 
day. At the last moment there came an irritating 
misunderstanding with the hotel clerk, who was 
not aware that her manager would pay for this 
extra day. She was obliged to show him her con¬ 
tract and fully explain matters. 

203 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


Realizing the necessity of haste, she sent her 
baggage on and had it checked. But when she at 
last reached the station the train was just going 
out of one end as she entered the other. 

“ A well-rounded day of mishaps, ” thought Sel¬ 
ma, “ with a fine crescendo at the end! ” 

Here she was alone in St. Louis while all her 
effects were traveling to Memphis. The first and 
only thing to do was to make inquiries about the 
next train. The result was not satisfactory: no 
other train would leave until the next morning. 

She was advised to take the night boat; and as 
this seemed the best plan, she adopted it. Half 
an hour later Selma was aboard the Dolly Varden , 
which left its dock promptly on time. 

She went directly to her stateroom; but having 
no toilet conveniences, she did not undress, but lay 
down to sleep as she was. 

A street costume is not conducive to childlike 
slumber, neither is the thumping of a boat’s en¬ 
gine. With the two combined it is not strange 
that Selma tossed and turned and dreamed great 
dreams in a minute whenever she closed her eyes. 
Toward three o’clock she awoke. The close atmos¬ 
phere of the stateroom was stifling. 

She threw on her cloak and walked down the hot 
corridor to the saloon. Here it was not much bet¬ 
ter, for the lights were burning low and emitting 
an unpleasant odor of coal-oil. 

204 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


Selma went to the gangway, and there breathed 
freer, for the door above was open. Following her 
impulse, she mounted the stairs and stepped outside. 

The scene about her was a vision of peace. A 
veil of mellow moonlight enwrapped the sleeping 
world. The country round was level, and one 
could see afar white fields and roads and woods, 
and between them all lay the mighty river, silent 
and dark and deep. Selma gazed long, and thought 
of the song, ‘‘He givetli His beloved sleep.” She 
turned to descend—but at this moment there was a 
great cracking, creaking, screeching report. The 
whole universe seemed to turn over—the stars and 
moon descended, the river flew upward—and all 
things hurled, whirled, rushed, and splashed. 

Sounds of many voices soon filled the air—swear¬ 
words and prayer-words, moans and groans, while 
over all hung a pall of darkness. The moon had 
hidden behind a cloud, as tho fearing to look on 
the scene of terror—the river of Death and night 
of Eternity. 

Selma had been thrown against the ship’s railing 
and was dazed for a moment by the shock. But 
presently she was conscious of a plunge into dark¬ 
ness, and then of a cold flood that submerged her. 
She was sinking, floating, drowning, rising—she 
knew not what. But her strength did not leave, 
nor her hope of life, and she hardly realized the 
strange chance that threw in her path a floating 
205 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


object, which she succeeded in grasping and climb¬ 
ing upon. 

It was not the proverbial broken spar, but one 
of the long deck-benches, wrenched loose and 
thrown over by the explosion. 

Selma could not see the full outlines of her 
strange preserver; she could only feel her way 
along. While reaching out in the water her 
hand suddenly touched something that sent a 
chill to her heart. It was another hand !-—a 
soft, small hand that immediately clutched her 
own. 

“ Oh, help me! Do help me! ” pleaded a faint 
voice near by. At this moment the full moon 
sailed forth from its cloud-banks and shone upon 
the woman’s face —a face that Selma recognized ! 

We can not unravel the laws that bring about 
these coincidences in life—these encounters that 
seem stranger than fiction and too incredible for 
belief. Call it fate or call it chance, we only 
know that this particular event was destined to 
affect Selma’s whole life. 

On seeing the face she had given a sudden start, 
thereby drawing loose from the clutching hand. 
Then she recalled herself and reached out again; 
but the treacherous waters had already widened 
the distance. She could only grasp a few strands 
of floating hair; but they slipped through her fingers 
like damp snakes—shimmering, coiling, golden 
206 








































SELMA THE SOPRANO 


snakes: for that hair was yellow—yellow and soft 
as is seldom seen. 

Still clinging to the unsteady bench, Selma 
watched with dilated eyes the figure carried be¬ 
yond reach. It sank down, and still she watched 
the spot, staring as tho she could fathom the dark 
waters and see the departing soul. Once again 
that face arose to view, and the moonlight fell 
upon white lips and drooping eyes surrounded by a 
halo of gold—the face that Selma could never for¬ 
get, tho she had seen it but once five years ago— 
the wife of Arthur Holmes! 

The waves seemed to caress the body for a mo¬ 
ment, and then, like a hungry ogre, the river swal¬ 
lowed its prey. 

Selma continued to gaze at the silver-tipped 
waves; but never again did sun or moon shine 
upon that face. 

In the mean time Selma’s bench had struck the 
river’s current and was drifting rapidly. But she 
paid no heed to this, nor did she feel the chill of 
the water. She felt only the chill of horror at the 
vision constantly before her. 

“ I might have saved her had I not withdrawn 
my hand ”—this was the awful thought that surged 
in her brain. 

She was oblivious to the fact that she still had 
herself to save. 

She was indeed in a state of semi-consciousness 
207 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


for some time. Half lying, half clinging upon her 
wooden support, she never knew how the time 
passed, or how it happened that in the early morn¬ 
ing hours she was found by some fishermen lodged 
against the posts of a little pier. 

They took her to a near country house, where 
the good wife dried her clothes and revived her 
with various teas and a brisk rubbing. Being of a 
naturally strong constitution, the physical ills did 
not affect her so much as the mental pain. When 
questioned about the accident she answered 
evasively; not from any motive, but because 
the death of Arthur Holmes’s wife had al¬ 
most obliterated her memory of the previous 
panic. 

Selma boarded a passing boat that same after¬ 
noon and succeeded in reaching Memphis in time 
for the night’s concert. She told of a delay on 
the road, but gave no details, and never a mortal 
suspected that she had taken passage on the Dolly 
Varden , whose terrible fate was the topic of the 
day. On reading over the death-list, Selma found, 
as she had expected, the name that was already 
seared on her heart—•“ Mrs. Marion Holmes. ” But 
that was all. Mr. Holmes’s name was among 
neither the saved nor the drowned. His wife had 
been traveling alone. Selma did not wonder about 
it, nor did she read any more. She wished to for¬ 
get and to keep unknown the fact of her presence 
208 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


in the awful scene. Fortunately her own name 
was not upon the passenger-list. 

With burning brow and beating heart Selma 
sang her part that night. In the crowded hall and 
the bright gas-light she courtesied and smiled, but 
in the long, lone night she was crushed and dis¬ 
mayed by haunting, taunting thoughts. 

“ I envied her once — and now she is dead! 
She wanted to live! She had hold of my hand— 
but I drew it back! I can feel the touch yet and can 
hear her voice! Oh, it is awful—it will kill me! ” 

Selma was like one who is stricken with terror. 
She covered her head and scarcely breathed for 
fear. She tried to think of other things—to recall 
a strain of music or repeat some verse of a poem. 
As a result of this effort there rang in her brain 
again and again—like the chorus of a tragic song— 
these words by Mrs. Wilcox: 

“I hold it true that thoughts are things, 

Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings; 

And after you have quite forgot 
Or all outgrown some vanished thought, 

Back to your mind to make its home 
A dove or raven it will come.” 

Selma tossed and moaned as she blamed herself 
for thinking wrong thoughts once, long ago, when 
she had looked on that picture of Marion Ellis. 

“ The raven has now returned to claw and gnaw 
at my soul! I feel guilty—so guilty! ” 

14 209 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


She longed for the day to scatter away these dire 
dreams of darkness. But with the first glimpse 
of light her frightened fancy recalled still another 
verse, long forgotten, about the 

“Damp, dull dawn staring in at the pane 
Like a dim, drowned face with oozy eyes ! ” 

Whereupon Selma saw in every detail Marion 
Holmes asleep in the river-bed. “ She can never 
awake,” thought Selma, “while I, it seems, can 
never sleep! ” 

But she did at last find some repose, and when 
she awoke in the full daylight the perspective of 
her mental vision changed. She could think more 
rationally of her experience. She had never in¬ 
tended any one’s death; and furthermore it was not 
only possible, but probable, that the frail bench 
could not have upheld two people. This thought 
was her greatest comfort. She would repeat it to 
herself over and over, like a spell to ward off 
frightful memories. 

Other scenes and other songs had their effect 
upon Selma. She was young, successful, and very 
busy. It is not strange that after a few months 
her memory of the wreck became buried deep under 
the tide of life as the boat under river-waters. 
She never told about it, nor recalled old associa¬ 
tions. 


210 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


CHAPTER IV. 

The winter and the summer passed, and Selma 
was becoming famous. 

She had numerous friends among the profession, 
and she was always generous with her time and 
talent. This season a certain well-known journal 
in New York was giving a series of charitable con¬ 
certs at Castle Garden. Selma was suddenly called 
upon to fill a friend’s place at one of these con¬ 
certs. She consented on the shortest notice, barely 
having time to dress and reach the auditorium. 

It was a queer-looking place for a concert; the 
building seemed better suited for a circus. Elags 
were hung upon the dingy walls and palms deco¬ 
rated the rude platform. The only means of 
reaching the temporary dressing-room was by a 
small projecting stairway at the back of the stage 
in full view of the audience. 

Fully five thousand people were assembled when 
Selma was directed up these most prominent stairs. 
Having accomplished the ascent in safety, she was 
received at the top landing by the press represent¬ 
ative. “ I believe you are to take Madame Dur- 
yea’s place? ” 

Selma raised her eyes in startled surprise. They 
met the gaze of Arthur Holmes, whose astonish¬ 
ment equaled her own. He extended his hand, 
211 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


which trembled at the touch of Selma’s nervous, 
cold fingers. 

Thus before five thousand people they met again, 
and they both recalled that last interview. He 
had other memories, and so had she; but they 
spoke no word of the past. 

He showed her to the big, barn-like dressing- 
room, and introduced her to the tenor and the con¬ 
tralto of the evening. 

The latter was trying to arrange her hair and 
complexion before a cracked mirror beside a miser¬ 
able little smoking lantern, the only illumination 
to be found. 

The concert had begun, and Mr. Holmes was 
busy here, there, and everywhere. 

The dressing-room was a perfect bedlam, for the 
artists were “trying” their voices, violins, and 
flutes all at once. The pianist alone bears the dis¬ 
tinction of keeping quiet in a dressing-room. 

The contralto had her music on her lap and was 
humming away at her first aria, while a maid was 
putting on her slippers. The first number did not 
get an encore, so the contralto had to be hurried off 
before she was half ready. She went humming 
and “ ahem-ing ” all the way to the stage. 

When she returned, all hands—voices—flew to¬ 
gether to rehearse the “ Rigoletto ” quartet, while 
the pianist and violinist were in front. Huddled 
close to the wretched lamp, these singers worked 
212 


i 



A strange group 





SELMA THE SOPRANO 

hard. The tenor beat time and the baritone held 
the music. 

Just as Selma was clinging desperately to high 
“ A ” and the tenor was in the same region, Mr. 
Holmes rushed in excitedly. “ You are practising 
too loud!” he exclaimed. “They can hear it in 
front, and the pianist is furious. It’s all right 
when they are clapping, but you must subside 
between times.” But that quartet had to be re¬ 
hearsed, so they commenced again more softly. 

Mr. Holmes made himself useful by holding the 
lantern over their heads in front of the music. 
They stood in the middle of the room and formed 
a strange group—these four musicians singing 
away all unconscious of the humor of the situa¬ 
tion. 

The candle cast such grotesque shadows. It 
threw each singer in a different corner; but nearer 
to the soprano than any other was the shadow of 
Arthur Holmes. 

Every time there was heard any applause in 
front, the “ Rigoletto ” quartet would swell out to 
a sudden crescendo which lasted with the applause, 
and then again diminished. 

Artists are not always delighted to hear another 
one encored, but this queer quartet just laughed 
with glee when they heard the violinist recalled, 
for it gave them more time to rehearse. 

They hastened over the last page, and then Sel- 
213 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


ma had to get ready for her solo, which was the 
next number. 

She smoothed every wrinkle from her gloves, 
bestowed a final pat to her hair, and then, at the 
door of the dressing-room, unfastened the fluffy 
cape that she always wore till the last moment. 
Mr. Holmes helped her to remove it. As he stood 
for a moment leaning over her shoulder, both heard 
the same sound and had the same thought,—the 
violinist was giving as an encore that sensuous mel¬ 
ody of the Carmen, “Habenera,”—the song Selma 
had sung at their first meeting. 

“I have heard it before,” murmured Mr. 
Holmes. “ Do you remember? ” 

His voice was so near and so dear! It was 
“ Arthur ” once again—her first and only love! 

She remembered only what he wished her to re¬ 
member, and forgot for the moment every bitter 
association that melody might have recalled. 

“It was years ago,” he continued softly, “but 
it seems like yesterday. First the ‘ Habenera, ’ 
then the ‘ Ave Maria/ and then”—his voice sank 
lower—“and then ‘ Ich liebe Dich ’—Selma! ” 

Their hands clasped for a moment under the 
cape; but then she hastened away and stepped be¬ 
fore the audience with flushed cheeks and spark¬ 
ling eyes, and her heart beating faster than it ever 
did from stage-fright. 

Selma sang her aria well. There was sponta- 
214 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


neous applause, and she came out and bowed. She 
was called out again, and this time she sat down to 
the piano. 

Selma never planned her encores; better to be 
disconcerted with an encore than disappointed 
without one, was her maxim. 

But this time she hesitated not a moment in her 
selection. It was a little German ballad that per¬ 
haps few in the audience understood; but the ten¬ 
derness of her tones was unmistakable; and there 
was one listener behind the little stage door who 
understood every word and a great deal more. 

It was her answer —“ Ich liebe Dich! ” 

And this was all their courting; or rather it, 
was the coda to a long composition. After work¬ 
ing through much tempo agitato the original theme 
had been resumed at last. 

But there are other numbers on life’s program; 
the performance is by no means ended. 

CHAPTER V 

They were to be married. Some two weeks be¬ 
fore the day, Selma went with Mr. Holmes to visit 
his little daughter Miriam, of whom he had told 
her much. 

This was the occasion Selma had planned to tell 
him of her terrible experience on the Mississippi. 
There had been opportunities before, but she had 
215 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


let them pass. He had told of his wife’s sad 
death: how she had started South for her health, 
but how on the trip she was killed in an accident. 
On hearing this, Selma had shuddered, her tongue 
seemed to cleave to her mouth, and she could not 
speak. 

But she was determined not to let this occasion 
go by. When seeing the child it would be only 
natural to speak of its mother, and then was the 
time to confess that she too had been in that river- 
wreck. 

The important moment had arrived. Selma was 
waiting in the parlor of his sister-in-law’s home 
while Arthur went upstairs for the child. 

Presently there was a sound of little footsteps 
in the hall, and then the parlor door was pushed 
open by Miriam herself, who had come on ahead 
of her father. 

As the child stood for a moment in the doorway, 
Selma looked and turned pale. She had prepared 
herself for a resemblance, but not this—not this! 
The child was its mother over again: the same 
shaped face, same drooping blue eyes, and, to crown 
all, a mass of flaxen hair. 

Selma did not speak at first, neither did the 
child. Miriam was shy, and only sidled over 
by degrees to the strange lady. Finally Selma 
touched Miriam’s hand and drew her nearer; then 
the little one looked up. 

216 


SELMA THE SOPBANO 


“ Are you ‘ dear Selma ’ ? ” 

There were tears in Selma’s eyes as she em¬ 
braced the child warmly, and answered: “ I hope 
you will always call me so.” 

“ Papa often talks about ‘ dear Selma , 9 ” contin¬ 
ued the little one. 

" And I can tell you he often talks about * dear 
Miriam,’ ” was the hearty response. 

Mr. Holmes had now entered the room, and he 
gazed in silence at the charming picture of his 
golden-haired baby ensconced on Selma’s lap. 

She looked up to him with a smile. “ You see 
Miriam and I are already good friends.” 

The little one now slipped down from her perch 
and tripped out of the room, evidently bent on 
some mission of her own. 

When she was gone, Arthur drew Selma to his 
arms, murmuring fondly, “This is the happiest 
day of my life.” 

Selma responded to his caress, but she was 
thinking all the time of her confession. How was 
her opportunity. She held his hands in hers and 
tried to speak quite bravely. But at this moment 
there were sounds of a tumbling catastrophe in the 
hall, involving various exclamations from a childish 
voice. Mr. Holmes and Selma rushed out in alarm, 
but were soon relieved to find that it was not the 
child, but only her books, that had fallen. 

She was bringing an armful to show the “ new 
217 


SELMA THE SOPBANO 


mama.” When her treasures had been rescued 
she clung to Selma as they reentered the parlor, 
and again climbed upon her lap. 

“Papa says you sing music; won’t you sing 
this?”—and Miriam pointed out a bit of nursery 
jingle. 

Now, strange to say, after years of practise; af¬ 
ter successfully appearing before critical audiences 
with such arias as the Hamlet “ Mad Scene ” and 
“Elsa’s Dream,” Selma found it the greatest diffi¬ 
culty to sing with steady tones— 

“ Dickery-dickery-dock, 

Tlie mouse ran up the clock.” 

But Miriam was delighted, and wanted to hear 
the song again. Then she turned to other pieces 
in the book, and laughed with joy to hear Selma 
translate the mysterious characters into sweet mel¬ 
ody. But none delighted her more than “ Dick- 
ery-dock,” to which she always recurred. 

Selma, too, was becoming interested in this 
nursery nonsense, and the storm in her heart sub¬ 
sided. 

They were a happy trio, and she was glad things 
had turned out so. 

Why should she trouble Arthur with sad mem¬ 
ories to no purpose? Would it not be selfish on 
her part to make him share her torturing secret? 

Thus are we driven by conscience and inclina- 
218 


SELMA THE SOPBANO 


tion: one plies the whip, while the other pulls the 
reins. 

Selma decided to let the “ dead past bury its 
dead. ” 

Two weeks later, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes went to 
Elorida on their wedding-trip, and they remained 
there the entire season. 

Selma had given up her concert work, and the 
old life seemed so completely cut off that she fan¬ 
cied herself at peace with the past. Her happi¬ 
ness was supreme. Coming home, it was proposed 
that they travel to New York by water. There 
was a time when Selma would have opposed such a 
plan; she had once thought that no power on earth 
could induce her to again mount the gangplank of 
a steamer. 

But now when Arthur said it was “ all right, 
perfectly safe, and much pleasanter,” she thought 
no more about her former dread until she found 
herself walking with him arm-in-arm upon the 
deck of a coast-liner. 

They were started on a three-days’ voyage, sail¬ 
ing away from the happiest scenes of her life. 

But as the dusk of evening fell, and they still 
promenaded the deck, she suddenly realized that 
every minute upon this steamer was carrying her 
spirit to the banks of the Mississippi much faster 
than to New York. 

Selma became more and more pensive. She was 
219 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


listening not to her husband’s light talk, but to 
the splashing of the dark waves that seemed to 
whisper among themselves of a night long ago 
when they belonged to the mighty river and had 
not neared the ocean. They whispered of a trag¬ 
edy : of two women alone together—alone in night 
and death. “ And no one ever told the tale: one of 
them died, and the other lived; and the living one 
wedded the dead one’s lord. 

Alackaday ! 

It might have been otherwise, we say.” 

In the gathering gloom a soa-bird screamed, and 
the waves rolled on with their mocking song. 

Selma clasped her hands to her ears with a terri¬ 
fied cry. 

“ Dearest Selma, what is it! ” exclaimed Ar¬ 
thur, holding her in his arms and rubbing her 
brow. “ You tremble and your hands are cold.” 

“ It is nothing, ” she quickly answered, trying to 
recover herself. “ Only the ship and the ocean;— 
I don’t like the ocean! ” 

She grasped his arm nervously. “ Arthur, tell 
me; if the ship should go down right now, do you 
think this bench here would hold both of us if we 
clung to it in the water;—would it save both of us ? ” 

He answered tenderly: “You are nervous, little 
one. I think we had better go below.” 

But Selma was not to be put off; her question 
220 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


was more earnest than it seemed. So Arthur 
finally expressed his opinion thus: 

“ I really think it would be advisable to engage 
two benches if you contemplate being rescued in 
that way; and I think you will be doing pretty 
well to succeed then.” 

His light answer seemed to touch all the humor 
in her nature. She laughed until she nearly cried; 
and then she put her arms about his neck and de¬ 
clared he was so good and kind, and she really did 
not fear the ocean so very much, and she did not 
care to go below for a long time. And she thought 
of so many jokes to tell, and was so witty the rest 
of the evening, that Arthur declared he wished they 
could always travel thus. 

But that night Selma dreamed a terrible dream. 
She wept in her sleep till Arthur called to her and 
asked what was the matter. 

“ I have had such a dream! I am still afraid. 
Arthur, you said one bench could not save two 
people. You did say that—didn’t you?” 

“Why, I suppose so,” he answered, miscon¬ 
struing her tone. “ But if that is what troubles 
you, I am not sure but one bench could save us 
both, after all. So there, don’t worry! ” 

But Selma groaned; and turning in her berth, 
she wept silently for hours. She had dreamed a 
terrible dream. 

That voyage left an impress on Selma. For days 
221 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


and weeks she was oppressed by an awful sense 
of guilt. She longed to confide in some one—to 
hear from other lips that her fault was not so 
great. But she shrank from confession, for it was 
a difficult scene to portray. Over and over she 
planned the words; but they always colored her 
deed too much one way or the other—too black or 
too bright—for she knew not herself how wrong or 
how right she had been. 

One sleepless night she softly arose and stole 
across the hall to the room where Miriam slept. 
Long she gazed on the fair young face. Then slowly 
Selma’s nervous imagination conjured another form 
watching beside her: that other mother was leaning 
over the opposite side of the crib, and her sad eyes 
seemed to say : “ This is my home, my child! You 
have no right to be here to-night! ” 

Selma shuddered, and cowered in a big arm-chair, 
and buried her face in her hands. 

But soon little fingers pulled her own away, and 
a childish voice sounded in her ear : “ You are cry¬ 
ing—I heard you. Please don’t cry! ” 

Miriam had climbed over on to Selma’s lap, and 
was trying to rub the tears away. 

" Please don’t cry! Has some one hurt you? 
Never mind, Miriam loves you.” 

Selma clasped to her heart the soft, warm form 
of the child, and she felt suddenly cheered and 
comforted. A vague, unworded belief that the 
222 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


child represented the mother caused Selma to treas¬ 
ure each word of affection as a peace-message from 
the grave. 

“Perhaps you got afraid in the dark?” contin¬ 
ued Miriam;—“I often do.” 

She paused a moment, and then brightened up 
with an idea. 

“ It’s a good thing to sing if you are afraid;—I 
often do. Let’s sing and rock Dickery-dock! ” 

Miriam at once started off in a high, thin voice 
on the old ridiculous rime; and it would have been 
a stubborn soul that could have failed to follow her 
example. Selma wrapped a big shawl around them, 
and there in the gray dawn they rocked and sang 
together. They both enjoyed the song, and they 
both fell asleep. 

Thus did Miriam ever and again unconsciously 
quiet the riot of accusing conscience. 

CHAPTER VI. 

The months and years rolled by. Selma was 
devoted to Miriam, and the child seemed equally 
attached to Selma. 

They walked and talked together, they played 
together and studied music together, and they 
laughed and sang at all hours of the day. Mr. 
Holmes was often congratulated upon his happy, 
ideal home. 

No pains were spared on Miriam’s training; and 
223 


SELMA THE SOPBANO 


indeed, Selma was strangely particular on some 
points, as the following instance will show. 

Once when Miriam was quite a girl she came 
home from school with an unusual amount of ve¬ 
hemence to her opening and shutting of the door, a 
suspicious flinging down of hat and books; and 
then, rushing to the piano, she landed with fire 
and fury on the first chord of Chopin’s Bevolution- 
ary Etude. She dashed down the opening passage, 
mutilated the notes at the end, and tore the tempo 
to tatters. 

It was not long before Selma entered the parlor 
to interfere. 

“Do not vent your temper on the divine art, 
Miriam—it is little less than blasphemy. ” 

Whereupon Miriam turned round, with flushed 
face and tear-choked voice : 

“ Oh, it isn’t the music I am mad at—it’s a girl 
in my class! I hate her—I just hate her! ” 

Selma suddenly spoke up with tones intense: 

“Miriam, never let hatred find room in your 
heart. If another has done you harm, you but do 
yourself more by harboring such an emotion.” 

But Miriam was not so easily diverted from her 
wrongs. She still protested that the girl in ques¬ 
tion was mean and unbearable. 

“But, my child, don’t you see that by allowing 
yourself to hate in return you are at once as bad as 
she? And furthermore, you dare not indulge in 
224 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


such thoughts because of the suffering it may bring 
upon you. Suppose the girl you hate should die! 
Ah, Miriam, you never want that experience—to 
know that a soul beyond the grave has such a score 
against you!” 

Miriam was now listening, overawed by Selma’s 
strange vehemence; and the latter, as she spoke, 
was looking at Miriam sadly and steadily, tho she 
seemed to see beyond. 

“You would find her face peering at you in 
every book you read, in every picture on the wall, 
and every ember on the hearth. On every side 
you would meet some reminder of the past—a 
look, a word, a song, a flower or its perfume—and 
you would trace some resemblance in every passing 
face. Believe me, Miriam, you can’t afford to 
hate any living creature—not for the smallest space 
of time.” 

Selma put her arm about Miriam’s neck. 

“ Now, my little girl, go on practising your Rev¬ 
olutionary Etude, but let it express a revolution of 
your feelings. Make it a proclamation of victory, 
instead of a war-cry.” 

Miriam turned again to the keyboard and played 
more carefully, following the melody as Selma 
sang it. The young girl was soon impressed that 
music and anger do not go together. 

It was about this time that Mr. Holmes accepted 
the position of foreign correspondent to the New 
15 225 


SELMA THE SOBBANO 


York paper with which he had long been con¬ 
nected. 

“A sojourn abroad will do you good/’ he gladly 
announced to Selma. “You need a change, my 
dear, for you often look pale and tired. And 
besides, you can study more there—and Miriam, 
too, as we often have planned.” 

Selma was delighted to hear thiso She impul¬ 
sively kissed him, and fondly exclaimed: 

“ I am happy with you anywhere; but it will be 
pefectly inspiring to live in Europe. We will 
leave America and all our cares behind. I am 
going to forget everything but you, and Miriam, 
and music! ” 

Selma had often wished to give Miriam the ad¬ 
vantages of Europe, and to study there herself. 
Her own voice had not been neglected all these 
years; in fact, it had improved, and she was often 
advised to work for grand opera. Mr. Holmes, 
too, was proud of her voice, and urged her to make 
the most of it. So it was arranged that Selma and 
Miriam should study in Borne while Mr. Holmes 
traveled about as his work required, returning to 
see them as often as possible. 

Miriam was now fifteen years years old, the liv¬ 
ing picture of her mother, a perpetual pa;n yet in¬ 
dispensable solace to Selma. The life and work in 
Borne proved to be all and more than they had 
hoped for. It was exhilarating. Miriam was 
226 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


enthusiastic about her lessons with Sgambati, and 
Selma found a strange delight in the dramatic side 
of her art. 

They were living in the via Margherita, on the 
fifth floor of an old palazzo that was now given 
over to students of all kinds. The family of whom 
they rented rooms were artists every one of them, 
from the father on down to the youngest daughter. 
In the room next to Selma was a French girl learn¬ 
ing the mandolin; above, were sounds of an or¬ 
gan; on the first floor was a sculptor’s studio: 
hard workers all; unknown as yet, but hoping each 
one to thrill the world some day. 

One evening after a day of hard practise, Selma 
and Miriam were sitting in their room. They 
were tired and absolutely quiet—a rare occurrence; 
for between singing, declamation, and piano-prac- 
tise their room was one of the noisiest in the house. 

But to-night they were resting. The window 
was open, and presently, from below, or above, or 
next door, they heard a piano. At first they paid 
little heed; but soon Selma looked at Miriam and 
Miriam answered back, “ It is beautiful! ” 

The player was not an artist; he stumbled over 
the scales, and his arpeggios were execrable; but 
the music he played was what astonished them. 

“Did you ever hear it before?” asked Miriam; 
and Selma said: 

“No. It is as different from Wagner as it is 
227 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


from Rossini. I can’t place it. But how beauti¬ 
ful! There, that melody! Oh, it makes one 
want to cry! ” 

They listened on, and Selma was affected as 
never before by the power of music. 

There were such strange modulations, such mad, 
weird themes. Long after the playing ceased 
those melodies sang in her brain, and the next day 
they still clung to her. 

She was unconsciously humming one on her 
way down those dreary five flights of stairs. 

“ You are singing my music! Where did you 
get it?” suddenly inquired a voice behind her. 

Selma looked up and saw a pale, thin, eager-eyed 
young man, who from his speech was American, 
tho his features were Italian. 

“I suppose I heard you playing it. Are you 
the composer? You played like one—bad tech¬ 
nique, good touch. But your music is wonder¬ 
ful.” 

“Yes, I know,” he answered naturally. “But 
tell me, are you the soprano upstairs? You disturb 
me awfully, but I like your voice. Are you study¬ 
ing for opera? ” 

“Yes, of course. Don’t you hear me falling on 
the floor when I practise dying and fainting? ” 

“ That is so. I often wondered what was the 
matter up there, but never thought anything so 
tragic. I should think my opera would suit you. 

228 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


It has one death by apoplexy, one by drowning, 
and two suicides! ” 

Selma laughed. “That sounds attractive, and 
it is in my line. Bring it up sometime, if you 
like.” 

“All right. Good-day.” He went to his work, 
and she to hers. They were both earnest and busy, 
and never noticed the unconventionality or terseness 
of their speech. 

That evening the composer carried his precious 
portfolio to the floor above, and, ringing the bell, 
inquired for “the soprano.” 

It was the first call Selma and Miriam had re¬ 
ceived, and when the landlady announced a visi¬ 
tor they exclaimed at once: “ Oh, yes—the com¬ 
poser ! ” 

Both were delighted at the prospect of hearing 
that wonderful music, and the composer was 
equally delighted to have a sympathetic audience. 
But before playing he had to explain his music. 

“I have based my libretto on Zola’s novel, 
‘ Therese Raquin,’” he said. “You have never 
read it? Oh, I am sorry! Well, I must tell it to 
you. It is very intense and terrible, but that is 
why I like it; tame plots require tame music, and 
comedy in music is something for which I have no 
sympathy.” 

Selma agreed with him on this point; light mu¬ 
sic never appealed to her. 

229 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


The two women were seated in attentive attitudes 
on either side of the piano, while the composer 
stationed on the stool proceeded to tell his story. 

“To put it concisely, the main idea of Zola’s 
plot is this: A couple love each other, but one 
is already married. This obstacle to their union 
is disposed of by drowning. The victim’s death is 
supposed to be accidental, but in point of fact it 
was murder, and the heroine herself had a hand 
in it. The lovers are afterward married, and the 
strength of the opera lies in the mental suffering of 
Therese, who is continually haunted by visions of 
the dead.” 

“Well, I should think she would be!” ex¬ 
claimed Miriam; and then, glancing toward Sel¬ 
ma, who had not spoken, she jumped up with a 
cry of surprise. 

Selma had fainted! Miriam rushed to the next 
room for water; but when she returned, Selma had 
already opened her eyes. A fainting spell usually 
leaves one half hysterical. Selma was smiling and 
sobbing at the same time. She suddenly turned 
toward the composer, who still sat on the piano- 
stool, too astonished and frightened to do anything. 

“ I don’t like your opera—take it away! ” Sel¬ 
ma’s eyes sparkled, and she spoke excitedly. “It 
is horrible! You degrade music by adapting it to 
such emotions. I am sorry I ever heard it. I 
hope it will never succeed! ” 

230 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


This was too much. The young man gathered 
up his portfolio. 

“As my work has no probability of a public 
hearing, your good wishes can be dispensed with! 
I bid you good-evening. ” 

He went out of the room faster than he came in. 

“Dear Selma, why did you speak so? You 
made him very angry.” 

“ Is that so? Well, I am sorry. But I am so 
tired! ” 

Selma was nervous and feverish, so Miriam said 
no more about the matter. 

The next morning Selma seemed herself again. 

“I must apologize to that composer the next 
time I meet him. To discourage an earnest musi¬ 
cian is little less than a crime. I am ashamed of 
myself. ” 

Miriam was pleased by this announcement, and 
she settled down to her work composedly while 
Selma went out. 

Selma’s ostensible errand was to the bank, but 
this was not the direction she gave the cab-driver. 
He was ordered to “ St. Peter’s.” 

A wild determination had settled upon Selma 
during the previous night, for the composer’s 
story had pierced her soul like a doomsday call, 
and she could not bear her secret longer. 

Selma entered the doors of St. Peter’s and hast¬ 
ened down the vast nave—past pillars and pic- 
231 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


tures and chapels of stone; past mosaics that glis¬ 
tened and marble that shone; past relics of saints 
and tombs of the dead; past low-burning tapers 
and pale lights o’erhead; past people that prayed 
and others that stayed to gaze on the beauties 
around them. 

It is a long journey from the entrance of St. 
Peter’s to its transept. But it was not to see or 
to listen that Selma this morning hurried on—it 
was to speak. She had often been here, and had 
noted on the left-hand side a semi-circle of cur¬ 
tained retreats. They are the confessionals for 
all nations. 

Selma knew nothing of the Roman Church save 
the vague and consoling idea that in the confes¬ 
sional you can tell your troubles to a wise and 
willing listener who will counsel, but not betray. 

With the courage of despair, Selma stepped un¬ 
der the curtain that bore the comforting word of 
welcome—“ English. ” 

Still more despairing she came out. The place 
was vacant, and Selma was too weary and heart¬ 
sick to make any further attempt or inquiries. 

She leaned languidly against the balustrade of 
the great high altar. 

“ I must struggle on, ” she was thinking, “ and 
smile with the living while haunted by the dead. 
No peace, no help, no sympathy!” 

She mused on for some moments, and a terrified 
232 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


expression passed over her face as she thought 
again of “ Therese Raquin. ” 

Why must she needs encounter this story, so 
like her own, here far from home, where she was 
so happy and working so earnestly to forget the 
past! Truly, fate seemed hard against her. 

The high-niched saints and painted madonnas 
had seldom looked down upon a more wretched 
woman than was Selma at that moment. Miser¬ 
ably and appealingly she glanced about her as a 
consciousness of the surrounding glories came upon 
her. 

At this moment there was a mighty reverbera¬ 
tion, a throb as of human hearts, and then one re¬ 
sounding chord of music like a trumpet-blast from 
heaven. It was the organ of St. Peter’s. 

As the tremendous harmonies rolled on they 
brought Selma to her knees and tears to her eyes. 
The organist was voicing grandly a fugue on a well- 
known theme, the Aria from “ Stradella. ” The 
glorious tune kept working its way through trem¬ 
olos, chords, and thirds; sometimes accompanied 
and sometimes alone, in major and minor and all 
possible keys. Now high and now low, now fast 
and now slow, it soared from all parts of the organ 
like a prayer from all parts of the earth. 

When Selma finally emerged from St. Peter’s 
the violence of her emotions had been conquered, 
and a new purpose shone in her face. 

233 


SELMA THE SOPBANO 


It seemed to have been revealed to her that fate 
had thrown this strange opera in her path; but it 
was meant as a guiding torch instead of a destroy¬ 
ing brand. The composer was evidently poor and 
discouraged. It was plainly intended that she 
should help him to prominence; for no one on 
earth could portray the character of “Therese 
Baquin ” so well as she. 

So Selma, always quick in decision and impul¬ 
sive in action, stopped at the floor below their own 
in the old palazzo of the via Margherita. 

“ I wish to speak with the young American com¬ 
poser, ” she told the landlady who opened the door. 

The young man arose from his work and came 
forward with very bad grace. He paid little at¬ 
tention to Selma’s apologies about the evening be¬ 
fore, but began to look at her curiously when she 
asked for the loan of his manuscript. 

“ You know I am studying for grand opera, and 
intend to make my debut before returning to 
America. Now if you will allow me to study the 
score, and the music seems suited to my voice, I 
shall be pleased to create the role of Therese Ba¬ 
quin. ” 

The composer was thoughtful for a moment. 
He evidently regarded Selma as a very eccentric 
and troublesome neighbor. At last he spoke up 
firmly: “I may as well tell you, madam, that I 
have already submitted my opera to every manager 
234 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


In Rome. It is needless to try to get a hear- 
i ng.” 

Selma waived this objection aside. 

“We can discuss that part afterward. If you 
do not wish to let the whole manuscript go out of 
your hands, give me only a part, and I will learn 
it by to-morrow evening. You can come up then, 
and we will have a rehearsal.” 

Her surmise was correct; he hesitated to give 
up his precious manuscript to this strange woman. 
He entertained some fears that she might take a 
second sudden dislike to it. Selma continued: 

“ Let me try one of the scenes you referred to, 
where Ther&se is haunted by a vision of the dead 
wife.” 

“Dead wife?—dead husband , you mean,” qui¬ 
etly corrected the composer. 

Selma gave a little start of surprise. “ Then it 
was not the man's wife that was drowned? ” 

With a sort of nervous inspiration she quickly 
tried to explain. “I suppose I thought it was 
so — because—perhaps — the vision of a woman 
seemed more beautiful—more artistic than that of 
a man.” 

The composer looked up and spoke with anima¬ 
tion. 

“ It is more artistic. You are quite right—you 
have given me an idea. There is no reason why I 
can’t reverse those characters! I certainly shall 
235 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


do so. Here is the scene you asked for; take it 
and try it. And please change the pronouns when 
you sing it so as to have a feminine phantom/’ 
Selma took the manuscript, and the composer 
watched it with some misgivings, tucked under her 
arm ana carried upstairs. 

But it was reassuring to hear the piano above 
soon responding to those beloved harmonies. 

The composer went through some strange con¬ 
tortions all by himself in the room below. Being 
in manuscript and not overplain, the work of de¬ 
ciphering did not go so smoothly as he could 
have wished. With every false note or hesitancy 
in the rhythm this unknown genius would writhe 
and groan, but with every phrase of beauty he 
would beam ecstatically. 

But composers are apt to be unreasonable, and 
so with this young enthusiast. On hearing for the 
second time a sixteenth note where he expected a 
thirty-second, he grabbed up his hat and rushed 
out of the house, declaring he could not stay and 
hear his music murdered. 

He did not go home until night, and the next 
day he also stayed away. 

That evening he climbed upstairs with many 
misgivings. He Tang the bell of the etage above 
and asked once again for “ the soprano. ” 

Selma and Miriam received him at the door. 
They both were enthusiastic about his music. 

236 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


u Let U3 begin at once, ” said Selma. “ Miriam 
is the orchestra and you are the audience. Please 
sit over there on the trunk or the steamer-chair. 
Now, Miriam, begin.” 

“ Hold on !” cried the composer. “ You must ex¬ 
plain your stage-setting. If this i3 the vision- 
scene, where is the vision?” 

“Oh, I will turn toward the window, or any¬ 
where ; it matters not where I look, I shall see the 
ghost of the murdered woman.” 

Selma spoke fast and recklessly. “ I shall see 
her beautiful pale face and golden hair. Oh, have 
no fear, I can easily imagine that part! ” 

Selma’s breath came fast and her eyes shone 
like burning coals; but the composer did not heed— 
he had too many ideas of his own. 

" I won’t have a blond ghost! ” he suddenly ex¬ 
claimed. “ The vision must be beautiful, but not 
bhnd .” 

*• And why not? ” asked Miriam and Selma to¬ 
gether. 

“ Simply because the blond type is not tragic. 
The audience would admire, but not be thrilled; 
we must have a brunette ghost! ” 

“Well, all right. I can imagine it, anyway. 
Now I am ready to begin. I am supposed to have 
on my bridal robes, and am in my own room. Mir¬ 
iam, start up the orchestra.” 

The composer began beating the tempo , but he 
237 


SELMA THE SOPBANO 


soon stopped, and Miriam also turned round from 
the piano, amazed at Selma’s performance 

The singer did not miss the accompaniment. 
Her pure, full.voice rendered without effort the 
new and difficult music. But it was the wonderful 
expression—the passion, pathos, pain, and power 
of her acting—that most astounded. The meaning 
of every word was driven deep in the hearts of her 
hearers—• 

“The guests are waiting, and I can hear 
The sound of music and festive cheer; 

But this day that I longed for brings me pain, 

For I think of the past and the dead again.” 

The wretched heroine of the opera recalls with 
fearful minuteness the scene and details of the 
murder; how the drowning woman “desperately 
tried to grasp and cling to my hand! ” 

There is an appalling hush after this crescendo; 
then in sweet, faint tones, like a voice from the 
past, Therese remembers— 

“The ensuing silence 
Of the warm summer night, 

The sweet-smelling flowers, 

And the bright moonlight.” 

Very grandly had the composer accomplished 
his task. The agony of conscience was depicted by 
a chromatic theme of peculiar rhythm, while be¬ 
neath in the orchestra were to be heard distant 
strains of a wedding-dance. 

238 



Selma fell, limp and artistically 










SELMA THE SOPRANO 


Ther&se turns to meet her newly wed lover, but 
is confronted, instead, by a vision of the dead 
wife. 

With a shriek like a tortured soul of the inferno, 
Selma fell, limp and artistically. 

She quickly arose. 

u How is it? Will I do? ” The composer was 
wiping his eyes, and laughing and singing and 
clapping his hands all at once. “ You are Therese 
herself—my very own Tlierkse! Oh, my opera is 
a success! All the world shall hear it. I will 
borrow money, sell my library, work, steal—any¬ 
thing to bring it out! And then I shall be great; 
it will all come back to me. Oh, you are wonder¬ 
ful—you have saved me! You don’t know how 
delighted I am. This is the happiest day of my 
life!” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Selma could not wait to write the news to Mr. 
Holmes, who was then in Constantinople, but tele¬ 
graphed at once: 

“Have found wonderful new opera. Great r61e. Will 
d^but in the fall. Do come back soon.” 

Professional musicians will doubtless smile at 
the assurance and the unprecedented manner with 
which this composer and singer went to work. 
But it must be borne in mind that they were both 
239 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


conscious of genuine merit, both willing to risk 
anything, and both in a measure desperate. 

Selma advanced two thirds of the money, and 
the composer borrowed the rest. The expenses were 
not so great as might be supposed, the house and or¬ 
chestra being the chief items. The composer was 
to be music director and stage manager. No chorus 
was required, and the scenery was commonplace. 
A celebrated tenor was engaged upon a profit-shar¬ 
ing contract. All summer the work went on. 

Mr. Holmes arrived some weeks before the im¬ 
portant date, and, being himself a journalist, he 
lost no time in visiting the critics and attending 
to all the announcements — the placards, posters, 
programs, librettos, tickets, and advertising. He 
became in fact a general manager both on and off 
the stage. 

The composer burned many a candle low while 
designing costumes and stage settings, and Selma 
studied to the limit of her strength. Her thoughts 
were always with the opera, and she hardly knew 
when she was Therese and when herself. Some¬ 
times the mournful conclusion would settle upon 
her that there was very little difference between 
her own life and the story of the opera. Then 
again she would think quite otherwise, and would 
feel light-hearted, and believe that in portraying 
this character she was doing penance for a guilt 
that was purely imaginary. 

240 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


Rehearsals progressed satisfactorily, at least to 
the parties most concerned. The supernumeraries 
were in a constant state of turmoil over the com¬ 
poser’s strange directions and indomitable will. 

We have mentioned before that the services of 
a professional stage manager were dispensed with. 
This was not so much from economy as necessity, 
for it was soon evident that no one would or could 
meet the demands of this most erratic composer. 

The final rehearsal went without a hitch. The 
orchestra was well drilled and the ensembles were 
perfect. Miriam served as Selma’s maid and an 
all-round convenience. She was as excited and in¬ 
terested in all preparations as if the whole affair 
rested upon her shoulders. 

The night of the performance arrived. Selma 
found herself in good voice, and she looked unusu¬ 
ally handsome, altho worn a little thin by her 
long work. 

After seeing Selma and Miriam to their dressing- 
room, Mr. Holmes hastened to his managerial 
duties. 

Selma was soon arrayed in her costume, and she 
told Miriam to go and help the others. As Miriam 
reached the door, Selma suddenly rushed forward 
and embraced her, exclaiming brightly: “You 
must wish me success.” Miriam responded hearti¬ 
ly. “ I know your success is certain j your voice is 
so pure and so sure, and you look so beautiful to- 
16 241 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


night—perfectly lovely! I can hardly stop look¬ 
ing at you! ” 

Whereupon Selma laughed and warbled, and 
threw kisses to Miriam from the dressing-room 
door. 

The opera of “ Therese Raquin ” opens with the 
scene of the murder. The distant cry of a wom¬ 
an’s voice, somewhat resembling Wagner’s shriek 
of the Walkiire, forms the first vocal music of the 
opera. The curtain rises upon a moonlit scene at 
the bank of a stream, and the orchestra proceeds 
to weave out strange, moaning harmonies—-the cry 
of a river-bird and the splashing of waves. Pres¬ 
ently a boat touches shore, and a man and a woman 
climbs out. They are pale and fearful. It is 
Therese Raquin and her lover. Their opening 
duet is mysterious and uncanny, but at last it 
swell out into defiant harmonies indicative of 
their determination to brave the consequences of 
their deed. Then follows the entrance of the vic¬ 
tim’s old mother, who has come in search of the 
tardy excursionists. The guilty couple carefully 
and dramatically explain to her how they all came 
near being drowned; how they tried to save the 
poor wife, but in vain. The mother, at first 
stunned by the terrible account, begins to doubt 
their tale, and she finally hurls maledictions upon 
them. She accuses them of killing her daughter; 
she cries out for help, and would denounce them, 
242 


SELMA THE SOPEANO 


but the excitement overcomes her, and she falls 
down in a fit of apoplexy. When assistance comes 
she tries to speak, but can not. The curtain de¬ 
scends. 

This first act was received enthusiastically. 
Even the musicians in the orchestra applauded. 
The contrabassist nodded his head to the drum¬ 
mer, exclaiming: “Very good, very good! The 
soprano has talent and originality.” The musi¬ 
cians left their instruments and went back under 
the stage during the interim. There all was 
bustle and hurry in preparing for the second act— 
the “vision scene.” 

Selma was again ready before the stage-setting, 
so Miriam went over to Mr. Holmes, who was busy 
arranging the “vision.” 

The lights and final touches were being be¬ 
stowed. The dark-eyed, finely proportioned figu¬ 
rante stepped into her place to represent the ghost, 
murmuring, as she did so, that her eyes were nearly 
blind from a headache. She had barely taken her 
position and arranged her long black hair artisti¬ 
cally when she toppled over in a faint. 

They carried her off with scant sympathy, for 
there was too much concern about the “vision.” 
It must soon be mounted, for the act had already 
commenced. Selma’s voice could be heard soaring 
out in her great solo like a bird on the wing. 

“ Quick, there! Who will do to fill this place? ” 
243 


SELMA THE SOPRANO 


cried Mr. Holmes in despair, as he heard that 
solo steadily nearing the end. 

“ I can do it, papa! I have seen it so often, I 
know the pose.” 

Mr. Holmes wasted no words. He hurried Mir¬ 
iam into the costume, and powdered her face at the 
same time. Then every one in the vicinity had a 
hand in trying to fit the black wig over Miriam’s 
hair. 

But her golden locks were too abundant and silky; 
the wig would fa]l off. 

“Well, it can’t be helped!” exclaimed Mr. 
Holmes. “ Just let down your own hair; the 
composer will have to be satisfied with a blond 
ghost, after all! ” 

Miriam hurried into place. She threw back her 
head, clasped her hands rigidly, and half closed 
her eyes as the stage moonlight was thrown upon 
her white face—the face of her dead mother! 

“ Too bad we can’t notify Selma of the change, ” 
thought Mr. Holmes. 

Soon the signal was given, and the “ apparition” 
slowly rose to view on the stage. The contrabass¬ 
ist and drummer were watching from the orches¬ 
tra as the soprano turned toward the “phantom.” 
They saw her give a sudden gasp, and then pass 
her hands before her as tho to dispel the illu¬ 
sion. She looked up once again, trembling in 
every muscle; her lips moved as tho to speak, 
244 



‘The contrabassist and drummer were watching from the orchestra.” 










SELMA THE SOPRANO 


but no sound escaped them. Suddenly she threw 
up her aims and fell prone upon the floor. 

As the curtain descended the drummer shrugged 
his shoulders. “ Overdone! ” he exclaimed. “ In 
striving to be original she has been unnatural. 
Why didn’t she scream properly and fall artisti¬ 
cally? ” 

They again left their instruments and went back 
of the curtain. 

As they reached the scene they saw Mr. Holmes 
step up to the fallen prima donna and take her 
hand to assist her in rising. 

They saw him suddenly drop the hand and fran¬ 
tically turn her face toward him. Then he stag¬ 
gered back with a cry of horror. 

Selma the Soprano was dead! 


245 



At the End of 
His Rope 

By 

Florence M. Kingsley 

Illustrations 

By 

C. H. Warren 


24 ? 



AT THE END OF HIS ROPE 


PART I. 

Mr. Percy Algernon Smith, familiarly known 
as “Cinnamon” Smith, thrust his hands deeper 
into his trousers pockets. “ I am not going, ” he 
remarked with an air of decision. 

“ Not going! ” cried the joint proprietors of Lone 
Pine Camp in a chorus. “Not going! Why?” 

Mr. Smith vouchsafed no immediate reply; he 
had fixed an experienced eye upon the coffee-pot, 
which at the moment threatened to inundate the 
camp-fire with its furious contents. “Here you, 
Jake,” he said peremptorily; “ the coffee’s boiling 
over! ” 

The campers at Lone Pine were on the point of 
starting out for an all-day’s fishing excursion up 
Sunday brook. It may as well be explained right 
here that the party consisted of four undergradu¬ 
ates of C-University who were temporarily pur¬ 

suing their education in the bracing air of the Adi- 
rondacks. 

That these young gentlemen were thus studi- 
249 




AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


ously engaged during that portion of the year com¬ 
monly exempt from mental pursuits, argues noth¬ 
ing. Great minds have ever been remarkable for 
concentration of purpose; and everybody knows 
that the late football, rowing, and bicycle seasons 
were of unusual and engrossing interest. It is to 
be hoped that a future and more enlightened gen¬ 
eration will so arrange the dull and comparatively 
unimportant scholastic pursuits that they shall not 
clash with live interests. In a word—to quote 
from their own forceful, if inelegant phraseology 
—Messrs. “ Cinnamon ” Smith, “ Piggy ” Brewster, 
“Herodotus” Jones, and “ Tommy ” Pettigrew had 
been “ plucked ” in their examinations, and were 
now “cramming” with more or less enthusiasm 
and diligence under the able direction of Prof. 
John Gearing. 

Mr. Smith’s announcement occasioned consider¬ 
able badinage of a personal and even damaging 
nature, all of which was received by that young 
man with commendable stoicism and equanimity. 

“ Cin’s lazy! ” drawled “ Piggy ” Brewster, as 
he ensconced himself comfortably in the stem of 
the boat, armed with the lightest paddle. 

“Cinnamon’s going to write to his best girl! ” 
shouted Herodotus Jones, shying a mighty quid of 
spruce-gum at the auburn head of the young gentle¬ 
man on the shore. “ Do it in poetry on birch-bark, 
old boy! Little wavelets a-kissin’ the beach; green 
250 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


leaves all whisperin’ of thee; my heart a-tremblin’ 
with rapture at the call of the lone loon across the 
moonlit waters! Hey, Cin?” 

“ Aw—get along with you! ” growled the recip¬ 
ient of these graceful sallies. “I’m going to bone 
all day on Greek—that’s what I’m going to do.” 

A burst of derisive laughter greeted this saying. 
Then the boat shot out into the sparkling waters of 
Beaver lake, and speedily disappeared behind the 
wooded island. 

Left to himself, it appeared that Mr. Smith had 
not remained behind to indulge in solitary ease, 
for no sooner did the last echo of oars and voices 
die away than he fell to work with extraordinary 
energy and diligence. He swept out the camp— 
being not over-particular as to corners—gathering 
in the process a goodly heap of bacon-rinds, egg¬ 
shells, torn paper, and tin cans, which he bestowed 
in the bushes. A motley array of old shoes of 
various sizes, four and one-half pairs of ragged 
socks, a nondescript assortment of parti-colored 
garments in various stages of dilapidation were 
retired, in company with the camp frying-pan, to 
a dark corner under the bunks, this position being 
further defended by an artistic arrangement of bal¬ 
sam boughs. As a finishing touch, two pairs of 
muddy trousers, a half-emptied tin of condensed 
milk—to the wrath and discomfiture of an indus¬ 
trious swarm of Adirondack flies—and three dog- 
251 


AT THE END OF HIS ROPE 


eared novels followed the bacon-rinds into the com¬ 
fortable obscurity of the hucklebery-bushes. 

Mr. Smith paused long enough to wipe his 
heated brow. “It looks pretty slick,” he mur¬ 
mured approvingly. “And now for the grub; 
girls are always hungry.” 

A rapid but thoughtful investigation of the camp 
cupboard ensued, with the following-named results: 
item—two small and somewhat wizened lemons; 
item—one damp and dubious paper bag, containing 
ginger-snaps minus the snap; item—one box of 
marshmallows. 

“ The lemonade’ 11 be on the Sunday-school-pic¬ 
nic order,” meditated the youth, as he surveyed 
these tempting articles with a doubtful grimace; 
“ and the less said about the snaps the better; but 
they’ll cotton to the marshmallows all right.—Jeru¬ 
salem crickets! there they are now, t’other side of 
the lake, and I haven’t even washed my hands! ” 

Exactly seven minutes later, Mr. Percy Alger¬ 
non Smith, arrayed in a golf suit of the latest 
fashionable cut and an immaculate flannel shirt, 
set off by a necktie of flaming red—which, he flat¬ 
tered himself, subdued the tint of his auburn locks 
to a positive brown—sauntered jauntily down to 
the boat-landing. 

“Howde do, Miss Daisy! (Jove, but she’s a 
stunner, and no mistake!) Glad to see you, Miss 
Terrill! Won’t you come ashore?” 

252 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


The elder of the two young persons in the boat 
hesitated; but the one addressed as Miss Daisy 
was on her feet in a twinkling. 

“Just for an instant, Kate!” she said depreca- 
tingly. “ What a sweet place for a camp—ours 
isn’t nearly so pretty!—Lemonade?” went on 
this sprightly damsel, fanning her flushed face 
with a big green fan; “yes, indeed, and it’s aw¬ 
fully kind of you to think of it, Mr. Smith! 
Aren’t you thirsty, Kate?” 

The person addressed as Kate looked about her 
tentatively. “ It certainly is a very pretty place, ” 
she said sedately; “ but we ought not to stop, Mar¬ 
garet.” 

“ The fellows are all off on the trail to Sunday 
brook,” remarked the astute Mr. Smith, setting 
out three glasses on the pine board which did duty 
as a table. “ They won’t be back before evening. 
The old man’s out bug-hunting.” 

“Who is the old man?” cried Miss Margaret 
with an irrelevant gurgle of laughter. “ And bug¬ 
hunting—ugh! Who ever heard of such a thing! ” 

“Oh, I mean Gearing! He’s bossing the cram¬ 
ming for exams.,” replied Mr. Smith with elegant 
brevity. “Two lumps of sugar, or three, Miss 
Daisy? ” 

“Three, please. Is he married?” 

“Married! Who—the old man? Ha! ha!— 
that’s a good one! Why, Miss Daisy, Gearing 
253 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


never even looks at anything but books and bugs, 
and is more afraid of a pretty girl than he’d be of 
a boa constrictor! ” 

“ The idea! How funny! Kate, do look at 
that big spool up there on the tree! What is that 
for, Mr. Smith?” 

“Thatspool? Aw—that’s another of Gearing’s 
notions. He likes to get off all by himself after 
his bugs—don’t want even a guide along to bother 
him. So he ties up one end of a string in camp and 
unwinds a monstrous spool as he goes along. When 
he gets through with his investigations he winds 
up, and the string brings him into camp again as 
right as a trivet. See? ” 

“ The very idea! ” 

“ Bright man! ” chorused the fair voyagers. 

“ His spools hold a mile of string, and he gener¬ 
ally carries his pockets full of ’em,” pursued Mr. 
Smith, gallantly presenting a toasted marshmallow 
to each of his guests. “ You can bet the fellows 
don’t raise many objections to his travels!—I 
say, Miss Margaret,” he added guilelessly, “don’t 
you want some pink water-lilies? I know where 
there’s a grist of ’em,—beauties too.” 

“ You go, Margaret,” said Miss Terrill indul¬ 
gently; “I’ll stop here and rest. I’m too deli¬ 
ciously comfortable to move.” 

And producing a volume from the pocket of her 
jacket, the young lady settled back in her luxu- 
254 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


rious chair—cunningly fashioned out of a barrel and 
a piece of burlap—with the air of an experienced 
chaperone. 

Before proceeding further with this narrative, 
it must be distinctly understood that Miss Kathe¬ 
rine Terrill was a young person in whose veins 
ran certain saving streams of genuine blue blood. 
Not only was she a colonial dame by virtue of 
both lines of descent, but through her maternal 
grandmother she was still further linked with 
greatness in a manner which defied question. 

To quote the often-repeated admonition of Mad¬ 
am Carter Stockard herself, “ You must never for¬ 
get, my dear Katherine, what your position as a 
descendant of Col. Brayton Carter, of Virginia, 
implies.” 

“ I should require a memory as long as that of 
Methuselah, dear grandmama, if I remembered all 
that it implies,” was the somewhat flippant answer. 

“ I am grieved and astonished, my dear Kather¬ 
ine,” once remarked Miss Penelope Scidmore, 
principal of the Scidmore Select School for Young 
Ladies, “ to learn that you , a young person of the 
most admirable birth and breeding, should for one 
moment have countenanced such a breach of the 
proprieties! ” Miss Scidmore had made the pain¬ 
ful discovery that certain of her “ select ” young 
ladies, under the leadership of Miss Terrill, had 
walked out of the protecting walls of the S. S. 

255 


AT THE END OF HIS EOPE 


S. Y. L. without a chaperone; and that, thus 
alone and unprotected, they had pressed into serv¬ 
ice a team of horses and an empty hay-wagon 
which they found on a side street, and had actu¬ 
ally taken a ride therein through the principal 
street of the little town, to the consternation 
(when he saw them) of the old farmer who owned 
the wagon, and to the still greater consternation 
(when she heard of it) of Miss Scidmore^ 

“ Why,” continued that lady in impassioned 
tones, “have you thus forgotten what is due to 
yourself and your family?” 

“I am sure I don’t know, Miss Scidmore,” 
Katherine had replied with honest contrition; “ I 
—I just did it! ” By which it will be seen that 
this young lady of high birth was, on occasion, 
as much the sport of freakish impulse as Katie 
O’Flarity, the daughter of the gardener at Bray ton 
manor. All this by way of explanation—tho it is 
in no sense an excuse—for what is to follow. 

The day was warm, as has been intimated, and 
the claims of “ The Scarlet Doom ” on the interest 
of the reader wavered after a little. Historical 
novels, dealing with the sanguinary past from a 
cold-blooded American standpoint, were decidedly 
out of place—thought this sapient young person— 
amid the fresh, breezy wilds of the Adirondacks. 
She dropped the book, to fix her undivided atten¬ 
tion upon the antics of a pair of squirrels which 
256 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


were frisking in primal gladness from bough to 
bough of the big pine. Her eyes followed them 
with a certain distinct satisfaction in the lawless 
freedom of these creatures of the wilderness, whose 
ancestors cast no chilling shadow upon the joyous 
present. 

At this point, in the course of her aimless medi¬ 
tations, her vagrant fancy was again arrested by 
the big spool dangling by a scarlet thread from the 
branch just above her head. As she gazed at this 
simple object, Miss Terrill completely forgot her 
position in society and the august character of 
her lineage. After full five minutes of reflection, 
which—as subsequent events proved—might have 
been spent to better advantage, the descendant of 
the Brayton Carters deliberately stood up on her 
chair and detached the big spool from its position. 

“This is a cobweb party,” she said solemnly; 
“ the scientific old professor and his box of bugs is 
the prize. ” With that, this “ model of all the pro¬ 
prieties ” began to walk away into the woods, wind¬ 
ing up the scarlet cord as she went. 

From fragrant, low-dropping balsam to white- 
limbed birch; from sunny knoll, crowded with 
purple-fruited huckleberries, to solemn stretches 
of forest, where the winds loitered in the odorous 
branches of the pines, whispering strange, ancient 
secrets of earth and sky; through trackless wastes 
of sweet fern, where the gnats bit fiercely; through 
17 257 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


dense blackberry-thickets, which clutched her sav¬ 
agely in their thorny arms; over fallen logs, half 
rotted away and carpeted deep with softest emerald 
mosses; past swampy spots, where the trim boots 



FOLLOWING THE SPOOL. 


sank ankle deep in the black mud,—deeper and 
deeper into the pathless wilderness led the slender 
clue. 

“It’s simply barrels of fun! ” sighed the bold 
258 



AT THE END OF HIS ROPE 


adventurer, lapsing into the camp vernacular, as 
she sank breathless on to a bank to rest, “ but—I 
believe I’ll go back without my prize. It must be 
nearly dinner-time.” 

She reached out after a sprig of wintergreen, 
where gay scarlet berries glimmered like live coals 
amid the overarching ferns, her brown cheeks dim¬ 
pling as she reflected upon the undoubted conster¬ 
nation of the water-lily hunters. Then she sprang 
to her feet with an air of decision. “ I must go 
back at once; we ought not to have stopped 
at all.” 

She glanced down at the bulky form of the big 
brown spool, and the full extent of her folly dawned 
suddenly upon her. “ How can I go back? I’ve 
wound up the cord! ” 

It was characteristic of this young person that, 
preliminarily to a careful consideration of the 
question, she sank down and laughed—till she 
cried; this to the great astonishment and dismay 
of divers small woodsfolk, who paused in the busi¬ 
ness of the hour to observe the new and peculiar 
animal which produced such strange noises. 

“ I have come a mile, ” she reflected, sitting up 
and wiping her eyes; “ for this spool is full, and 
number two hangs in the bushes yonder. ” 

The idea of surprising an elderly student of sci¬ 
ence at his labors had been gradually growing less 
and less attractive; and now after a period of se- 
2C9 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


rious reflection it ceased to appear either funny or 
fascinating in the slightest degree. 

“He is undoubtedly a person who would be 
politely, sarcastically, and crushingly disagreeable 
because I had ventured to meddle with his absurd 
spools,” decided Miss Terrill soberly. “ I am very 
glad that I stopped in time; I shall have no trou¬ 
ble in reaching the camp from this point. Of 
course I shall put the spool exactly where I found 
it.” 

She rose slowly to her feet and looked medita¬ 
tively about her. “ I came by that big tree; I re¬ 
member the dead branch hanging down to the 
ground.” 

Ah, foolish maid! keener eyes than those pretty 
brown ones of yours have been deceived by the 
wonderful likeness of everything to every other 
thing in the big woods. The tree with the dead 
branch certainly led to a perfectly familiar-looking 
bush; and the bush beguiled the weary little feet 
to an odorous group of balsams, where bright-eyed 
squirrels chattered angrily at the wearer of the 
jaunty red tarn. And beyond the balsams there 
was a cup-like hollow where the beautiful deadly 
“ Fly Amanita ” thrust its golden globes through 
the black-leaf mold. Then the brambles clutched 
at her with their thorny fingers, and the treacher¬ 
ous mud tried to hold her away from the ripe 
huckleberries. And all the while the gnats and 
260 


AT THE END OF HIS EOPE 


mosquitoes followed hard after—like the hosts of 
an avenging fate. 

But, yes; it was all perfectly plain and not at all 
far. She would soon catch a sparkle of blue water 
through the trees, and then dinner and a long, 
delicious rest in the hammock! The gruesome 
tales of wayfarers lost and starving in the woods 
were—she decided—simply figments of weak and 
elderly imaginations; mere bugaboos to keep small 
children within bounds. Any person of sound 
judgment and educated powers of observation could 
easily- 

“ Gracious! ” Miss Terrill rarely made use of 
such vulgar exclamations, but the exigency of the 
occasion wrung it from her lips. The spool was 
again empty! She looked wildly about her; there 
was no welcome glimmer of blue water, no perva¬ 
sive odor of a smoky camp-fire, no dinner, no ham¬ 
mock anywhere in sight. 

“Well, there is only one thing to do,” decided 
the girl after a second period of reflection, during 
which the humorous nature of the adventure did 
not once recur to her mind. “ I will go back to 
the second spool once more, and try again. One 
can always do what one must do,” she added sen- 
tentiously, and with the air of one who combats an 
unpleasant suggestion. 

Two hours later, as she wearily retraced her steps 
for the third time to the spot where the second 
261 


AT THE END OF HIS EOPE 


spool hung in the bushes, the situation had resolved 
itself in her mind (she had been a “ special ” in 
mathematics) into the following concise form: 

“ Let A represent the camp, and B the position 
of the second spool, one mile distant from A. 
How many miles might a person travel in endeav¬ 
oring to reach A, supposing he started from B in 
a different direction each time? ” 

“ If the traveler started out from B and traveled 
in a perfectly straight line each time,” she mur¬ 



mured—a diagram of the problem presenting itself 
with appalling distinctness before her mental vi¬ 
sion—“ he might easily travel several hundred miles 
without reaching A. If he traveled in curved lines 

—as he certainly would—why-” 

The undeniable conclusions were too harrowing 
to contemplate with calmness, therefore Miss Kath¬ 
erine Carter Terrill sat down upon a mossy log 
and shed tears for full five minutes. She be- 
262 





AT THE END OF HIS ROPE 


held herself, as it were, the wandering radius of 
an unknown circle, returning innumerable times to 
point B, and at last lying cold and unconscious on 
the forest leaves, the fatal spool clutched tight in 
her stiffened fingers. 

" I shall never find it—never! ” she wailed, 
grinding the innocent cause of her misadventure 
beneath her boot-heels. " But, oh, how can I let 
that man find me, as he certainly will, if I hold on 
to this wretched spool! I can’ t f if I have to die 
of slow starvation—and I am so hungry! But 
suppose I leave the spool here, the unsuspecting 
old gentleman will wind up to it, and then he will 
have nothing to go by—not even point B! ” 

A vision of her own revered grandparent wan¬ 
dering gaunt and famished through interminable 
wastes of desolate forest filled her with a lively 
anguish. 

“No, I must not leave him to perish—it would 
be murder! ” she said with a shudder. “ I will find 
him and tell him what I have done.” 

PART II. 

John Gearing glanced hastily over the closely 
written pages of his note-book by the waning light, 
snapped the cover of his tin specimen-case with a 
well-satisfied air, and rose to his feet. 

“It must be getting along toward sunset,” he 
reflected, with a cursory glance at his watch. 

263 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


“Capital day’s work, tho; I shouldn’t like to 
have missed that scarlet-headed arachnid. As for 
the coleopteron, I doubt if it has been generally 
recognized as a genuine erotylid—which it unques¬ 
tionably is.” 

He paused to drop a full spool into his pocket 
and disengage an empty one from the limb of a 
mighty spruce, which stood among its fellows 
weeping odorous tears of purest gum. The bug- 
hunter eyed it thoughtfully, a cheerful vision of 
the camp frying-pan, replete with sizzling slices of 
fragrant bacon, to be succeeded by a long procession 
of substantial slapjacks, rising alluringly before 
him. 

“Jove!” he muttered, “I forgot to eat my 
lunch! ” 

The reflections of the hungry scientist as he 
strode rapidly onward winding up his second spool 
were both comfortable and complacent. “ A more 
useful device to save valuable time than this sim¬ 
ple system of spools wa3 never devised,” he deci¬ 
ded. “ At this moment I am—approximately—one 
and one half miles from supper; with no doubtful 
trail to follow, no delays to puzzle over direction, 
no uncertainty whatever as to the exact point at 

which I shall-” He stopped short; his keen 

ear had caught the sound of crackling branches. 

“A deer!” he muttered; “and coming right 
this way! ” 


264 


AT THE END OF HIS KOPE 


Arachnida, Coleoptera, spools, and even supper 
were forgotten on the instant; and the bug-hunter, 
alert and silent, stood grasping his rifle, his eyes 
fixed on the low-growing tangle of evergreens from 
which the suspicious sounds had proceeded. A 
moment later and he was staring with undisguised 
amazement at the sipall figure which limped rapidly 
toward him. 

“ You are not Professor Gearing—I am so glad! ” 
were the astonishing words with which the appari¬ 
tion introduced itself. It pushed back a scarlet 
tam-o’-shanter from a tangle of brown curls, and 
continued: “ I don’t know who you are, but I am 
Katherine Terrill and I am lost in these dreadful 
woods. Do take me home!” With that the fig¬ 
ure sank back against a tree with a sound suspi¬ 
ciously like a sob. 

“I—I do not understand,” stammered the 
astounded bug-hunter lamely. “I can take you 
home, certainly; but I must acknowledge that I am 
John Gearing.” 

The wearer of the scarlet tarn started up with a 
hysterical laugh. “Professor Gearing is an old 
man! ” she cried, “ and you —you are quite—quite 
young! I took his spool out of the camp, and I 
can’t find the way back! ” 

“The spool—eh! You don’t mean-” 

“ Yes, I do. I took it and wound it up to point 
B—I mean the second spool,” faltered the mis- 
265 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


chief-maker, her cheeks dyed with penitent blushes. 
“I—I was stopping at the camp, you see, for a 
few moments with a friend, and I saw the spool. 
I can’t tell you why I did it.” This last with a 
vain clutch after her vanished dignity. “ It—it 

just occurred to me that it might be-” 

“ I hung that empty spool there merely as a tag 
at the end of my string,” remarked John Gearing 

meditatively. “ I certainly-” 

“ Say anything you like to me, ” interrupted Miss 
Terrill solemnly; “ I deserve it. We shall never 
get home alive—never! ” 

John Gearing stared at the speaker for a full 
minute, then he threw back his head and laughed 
long and loud. “ I—I beg your pardon, Miss Ter¬ 
rill,” he said at length; “but really-” 

“ Oh, yes, you may laugh! ” said the young lady 
with an indignant shrug. “ I laughed too—at 
first. But it hasn’t seemed a bit funny for at least 
six hours. I tell you we can't get back! We 
shall starve to death; and it’s—it’s getting 
dark!” 

The bug-hunter was sobered in an instant by the 
pitiful quiver in the tired voice. 

“ You don’t mean to say that you have been wan¬ 
dering about since morning with nothing to eat?” 
he asked anxiously. 

“ Nothing but huckleberries—and I loathe huck¬ 
leberries ! ” 


266 



AT THE END OF HIS EOPE 


John Gearing hastily swung his pack-basket to 
the ground. “ These sandwiches ”—producing a 
parcel of dubious aspect—“ have suffered somewhat, 
I fear, knocking about all day among my traps; 

but if you will accept them-” 

“ They look perfectly delicious! ” declared the 
young lady with unconcealed delight. “ But I shall 
eat only one,—it is just possible, you know, that 

we might—in time-” 

“ I beg that you will give yourself no further anx¬ 
iety on that score!” cried John Gearing confi¬ 
dently. “ We are only a trifle over a mile from 
camp; we’ll be there inside of an hour.” 

The girl shook her head mournfully. “ That we 
are so near is just the most dreadful part of it,” 
she said, winking rapidly to keep back two big 
tears which were trying hard to pass the barrier 
of her long lashes. “ But if you really think you 
can find the way, do let us start at once. Of 
course we can reach the second spool,” she added. 
“ I—I was frightened when I saw how late it was 
growing, so I came to meet you. I thought it was 

my duty to—to tell you-” 

John Gearing surveyed the speaker in puzzled 
silence. “Do you—er—mind telling me,” he 
burst out after a long pause, during which the 
stealthy twilight made perceptible advances, “ what 
—that is—why you were so sure that I was some¬ 
body else—at first, you know?” 

267 


AT THE END OF HIS ROPE 


“ What must you think of me! ” exclaimed Miss 
Terrill irrelevantly, stopping short in the midst of 
a vicious tangle of blackberry-bushes for no other 
purpose, it appeared, than to wring her small 
hands. “ It has all been so dreadful that I haven’t 
realized that! You must think me bold and med¬ 
dlesome and—and generally horrid! ” 

“1 have thought nothing of the kind! ” retorted 
the bug-hunter with unnecessary warmth. “ It was 
all the fault of those infernal spools! I wouldn’t 
mind this”—with a comprehensive wave of the 
hand which seemed to include all the hostile forces 
of nature—“ if it were not for you. I should get 

into camp all right, sometime; but-” 

“ You may think so, but you couldn’t,” said the 
girl with a pitying glance at the stalwart figure. 
“It will be all the harder for you to bear; and 
when I think that I did it—that it is all my fault! 
But of course I didn’t think—1 could never have 
imagined—what a fatal thing I was doing when I 
touched that spool. No, wait till I have told you 
all.” With that she poured forth the tale of the 
day’s adventures, closing with a statement of the 
problem which she had spent six unhappy hours 
in trying to solve. 

“Don’t you see,” she said in a shaking voice, 
“ how utterly improbable it is that we shall ever 
reach point A? ” 

John Gearing had smiled more than once during 
268 


AT THE END OF HIS KOBE 


this recital; he also frowned as he stared anx¬ 
iously into the black depths of the forest which 
shut ‘them in like a wall. 

“ Miss Terrill, ” he said gravely, “ your conclu¬ 
sions are undeniably logical and unpleasantly cor¬ 
rect—from your premises; but luckily there are 
other factors which you have overlooked, and which 
must be introduced. One is, that the guides are sure 
to beat the woods for miles about point A. There is, 
therefore, not the slightest danger of our becoming 
either variable or permanent radii of point B. The 
only question to be considered at present is, shall 
we make any immediate attempt to solve the prob¬ 
lem ourselves? You are already weary, and-” 

“ You might attach a second spool at point B, ” 
interrupted the girl, knitting her pretty brows; 
“our chances would then be multiplied by two.” 

“But I object to the preliminary division,” said 
John Gearing decidedly; “it simply isn’t to be 
thought of. The darkness has closed in upon us 
at an unconscionably early hour,” he went on rap¬ 
idly. “I can not understand it, unless, to add to 

our perplexity, it is about to-” A drop of 

water which landed squarely on the tip of his nose 
explained the phenomenon. 

“ It is raining, ” observed Miss Terrill with the 
calmness of despair. “ But of course that was to 
be expected. We will go on,” she added firmly. 
“ Ho—I am not at all tired, and I am quite accus- 
269 


AT THE END OF HIS HOPE 


tomed to the woods.” This last with a superb ges¬ 
ture of refusal as her victim offered his arm. 

Two minutes later her foot slipped on a treach¬ 
erous log, and with a cry she plunged forward into 
the darkness. 

John Gearing was at her side in an instant. 
“ My poor little girl, ” he murmured, lifting her 
with all possible gentleness, “ are you much hurt? ” 

“At all events I have not sprained my ankle,” 
said the girl with a faint laugh. “ But I slipped 
once before to-day, and-” 

John Gearing groaned. “ I shall never forgive 
myself for my outrageous folly! ” he declared sav¬ 
agely, and quite involuntarily he tightened the 
clasp of his strong arms. 

Miss Terrill laughed again in spite of herself. 
“Put me down, please, Mr. Gearing,” she said. 
“ If you should change most of the pronouns in 
your last statement to the second person, it would 
be quite what I deserve. I fear I shall have to 
stop where I am; but you must go on. Please go 
at once before it gets any darker.” 

“And leave you here alone?” 

“Yes.” 

By way of answer, John Gearing hastily divested 
himself of his thick shooting-jacket and wrapped 
it about his companion with an authoritative firm¬ 
ness which admitted of no question. 

“ I have four matches—and a half, to be exact, ” 
270 




A fire at last. 










AT THE END OF HIS EOPE 


he said, after a careful search through his various 
pockets. “ Luckily it hasn’t rained long enough to 
wet the ground; if the fates aren’t too unkind 
we’ll have a camp-fire inside of five minutes.” 

A flash, a sizzle, an impatient exclamation an¬ 
nounced that match number one had weakly suc¬ 
cumbed to the untoward influences of the place and 
hour. Two, three, and four followed with dis¬ 
heartening unanimity, during intervals plainly 
occupied in a frantic search for dryer material. 

“ If you only had some paper, ” ventured a timid 
voice out of the darkness. 

“Of course! Thank heaven you reminded me 
before I struck that last half-match! ” 

Another moment, and a score of closely written 
pages treating learnedly of the coleoptera and 
arachnida of the great northern wilderness were 
blazing merrily in the midst of a skilfully construct¬ 
ed pile of twigs and branches. 

“Wasn’t it fortunate you happened to have that 
paper?” observed Miss Terrill, as she leaned for¬ 
ward to warm her chilled fingers at the now thor¬ 
oughly established fire. 

“ Fortunate! ” echoed John Gearing, dropping 
his specimen-box as he stooped to lay another stick 
on the fire—whereat the scarlet-headed arachnid 
and the coleoptera, one and all, wriggled out and 
away with joyful haste. “It was by all odds the 
most fortunate thing I know of.” 

271 


‘AT THE END OE HIS KOPE 


“ Perhaps you will think me a coward, ” began 
the girl, after a prolonged pause which the rain¬ 
drops filled with a soft, insistent murmur. “Do 
you think it would be very wrong for me—that is, 

for you-” She turned her head away from the 

searching firelight as she continued in so low a 
voice that John Gearing was forced to bend his 
tall head to listen—“if they find us? You said 
they would search for us?” 

“They will search for us—certainly, and find 
us.” 

“ If they know—that is, if you—if—I must tell 
them that I took the spool to—to find you, I could 
not face them—I could not bear it! ” 

“ Ah, but the fact is that I found you! ” said 
John Gearing in his deepest voice. 

“ Yes—but—the spools! ” 

The bug-hunter leaned forward and deliberately 
dropped a full half dozen of them into the red heart 
of the fire. 

“ There are no spools, ” he said calmly. 

A more unpleasant spot than the virgin forest 
of the Adirondacks on a wet night it would be diffi¬ 
cult to find. Mr. Percy Algernon Smith put this 

fact more forcibly; he said-. But why repeat 

the words of a man who has forced his way through 
some six or eight miles of soaking coves, pursued 
all the way by jubilant throngs of mosquitoes—his 

m 



AT THE END OF HIS ROPE 


energies being still further taxed by laborious and 
systematic performances on a big tin horn? 

“I say, Jake,” he bawled, pausing after a suc¬ 
cession of ear-splitting blasts, “d’ye hear any¬ 
thing? ” 

The guide nodded. “To the west on us,” 
he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. 
“’Tain’t fur, neither.” 

The sagacious reader has already divined that 
this is only the beginning of the story. Its ending 
was after the old, old fashion, of which wise peo¬ 
ple the world over never grow tired, and which in 
truth is the end—or the beginning—of every story 
that is at all worth the telling. In this place it 
must be set down in just four words—afterward 
they were married. 

It was my good fortune, not many months later, 
to hear Mrs. John Gearing relate the above roman¬ 
tic circumstances, which she did with the prettiest 
smiles and blushes imaginable. 

In closing she declared solemnly that never in 
all the course of her existence had such a welcome, 
glad, cheerful, happy, enlivening, and altogether 
delightful vision greeted her eyes, as the round, 
freckled face of “Cinnamon” Smith as he burst 
through the dripping branches on that rainy August 
night. 

But she never so much as mentioned the spools; 
it was their ashes that told the tale. 

18 273 



The Easter 
of La Mercedes 

By 

Mary C. Francis 

Illustration 

By 

Freeland A. Carter 


275 







THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


CHAPTER I. 

It was Easter morning of 1895 in the city of 
Puerto Principe. Since early mass at four o’clock 
the populace had been astir in the grim old city, 
and hour by hour the throng had increased as the 
time for the great procession to leave the Iglesia 
Mayor approached, until now the narrow streets 
were jammed with a crowd that filled every avenue. 

The worshipers were on their way to the church 
to swell the parade as the risen Christ was borne 
forth to lead the way to La Mercedes, and they 
were in holiday attire; for of all the religious feast 
days of the church, that of the resurrection is the 
most imposing. Over the Moorish towers of La 
Mercedes the sun streamed brightly into the 
crooked, ill-paved byways and glinted ominously 
on the sword-hilt of a Spanish colonel. 

In the cool shadows of gray walls some negresses, 
gaudily tricked out, slouched impudently, their 
slippered feet sliding loosely over the stones and 
their gay garments splotched against the neutral 
background like daubs of paint on a eanvas. 

277 



THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


The scene was curiously like a play: a shifting 
panorama of color, light, air, flowers, candles, the 
flutter of feminine garments, the strains of music 
from the orchestra, and the chanting of sweet, boy¬ 
ish young voices. One sinister note was evident in 
the mingling of the soldiery with the crowd, alien 
and unwelcome, their presence studiously ignored 
whenever possible, tho only with discretion. 
The shadow of the uprising lay over the city. An 
unacknowledged terror knocked at every heart. 
Still, it was so early in the revolution that secret 
hope burned in each breast. In the plaza about 
the Iglesia Mayor the dense crowd grew denser 
with each moment. The glory of the great feast 
day was about to bourgeon, and every one impa¬ 
tiently awaited the moment when the life-sized fig¬ 
ure of the Christ should appear at the door of the 
church and proclaim in his body the risen 
Lord. 

Forth from an iron gateway there issued a little 
band, aerial, spiritual, like visions seen in dreams. 
They were children dressed as angels. None could 
have been more than eight years of age. Their 
sweet, childish faces were serious with that adoles¬ 
cent gravity which only infantile innocence can 
wear. They looked straight ahead of them as, led 
by two sisters, they emerged from the cool green¬ 
ness of the inner courtyard into the scarlet blaze of 
the sun, and walked in double file down the dusty 
278 


THE EASTER OE LA MERCEDES 


street toward the church. All were dressed in 
short, fluffy white skirts, their plump arms bare, 
and springing from their shoulders were gauze and 
silken wings. Their heads were crowned with 
chaplets of flowers, and in their hands they bore 
palm-leaves. The sisters carried lighted candles, 
and intoned a chant, joined by two more sisters 
following the children. 

Araceli and her aunt pressed forward to get a 
better view. 

“ Sanctissimi! ” whispered Araceli to Joaquin, 
“do you see Pepita? Is she not angelic? What a 
pity that one wing is a little crooked! I remember 
I was an angel at Easter when I was five. Ah, 
how proud I felt! And you, Joaquin—you were 
the Christ that same Easter, do you remember? ” 

The young man smiled sardonically. 

“Yes, I remember,” he said indifferently. 
“ What nonsense it all is! I have learned better 
in the United States.” 

The aunt crossed herself piously as a priest her¬ 
alded by acolytes passed in pomp. 

“Cuidado!” (“Look out”!) whispered Araceli 
sharply, a slight tremor shaking her voice. Even 
as she uttered the warning, General Mellia, civil 
and military governor of the city and province, 
went by in full uniform, gorgeous in lace and mili¬ 
tary trappings, attended by his staff. 

Joaquin Agramonte looked attentively at the 
279 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


Spaniard. The tension of his mouth increased. 
The girl, watching his face intently, found some¬ 
thing there to arouse her fears. 

“ Are you under suspicion? ” she asked in a faint 
tone that seemed to exhale from motionless lips. 

“Yes, assuredly,” replied Joaquin. “Do you 
suppose an Agramonte* could spend four years in a 
university in the United States and return to Cuba 
at the outbreak of another revolution and not be 
suspected? My family is like your own, Araceli, 
born to fight and die for Cuban liberty. I have 
come back, and I know what the consequences may 
be. There in the plaza yonder the Spaniards 
burned the body of my ancestor, General Ignacio 
Agramonte, after he had fallen in battle, and scat¬ 
tered his ashes to the winds. I too am an Agra¬ 
monte, and Cuba may have me if necessary.” 

“Madre de Dios!” (“Mother of God!”) mut¬ 
tered the girl, her face growing ashen under her 
mantilla. The young man, who had spoken pas- 

* The solid silver sepulcher, the throne of the Virgin, and 
the central altar in the church of La Mercedes, in Puerto 
Principe, were given by the ancestors of Caridad Aguero. 
General Ignacio Agramonte, commander-in-chief of the 
Cuban forces in the ten-years’ war, had his body publicly 
burned by the Spaniards in the plaza after they found him 
dead on the battle-field, and his ashes were scattered to the 
winds. Nearly every male member of the Agramonte fam¬ 
ily has been educated in the United States for generations, 
and most of them have fallen fighting for Cuba’s liberty. 

280 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


sionately, but in bushed, cautious tones, took sud¬ 
den note of the girl’s agitation. 

“Cheer up!” he said brightly. “You know 
what that red and yellow flag means for you and 
for every woman in Cuba as long as it floats over 
this island. Until it comes down there is no hope 
for any of you to become like-” 

He broke off abruptly, and with averted eyes 
seemed to contemplate some inner comparison. 

“Ah, I know,” said the girl quickly. “You 
mean like las senoritas Americanas! Yes, they 
are educated, cultured; they are permitted to at¬ 
tend the great schools with the men, and to speak 
and write; and, Dios mio, they may be lawyers 
and doctors—is it not so? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Ah, how happy they must be! Do they know 
how.much they have to be thankful for? ” 

“They are very ”—a long pause—“admirable.” 

His face was pensive. 

The girl’s glorious dark eyes, filled with the la¬ 
tent fires of the women of her race, gazed fixedly 
at him, and then dilated as tho with an inner il¬ 
lumination. 

“And they are very beautiful,” she said in a 
quick staccato. 

“ Hush, Araceli!” said the aunt sternly. “ Why 
do you speak so loud? You should be saying an 
Ave.” 


281 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


The girl’s eyes imperatively demanded an answer 
of the youth. 

“ Yes, they are beautiful,” he said, apparently 
with reluctance; “ but they are also attractive in 
other ways. They are intellectual.” 

“ Ah, yes! ” the girl sighed, —“ I understand. 
Joaquin, when you come back from the field I too 
will speak English. You see I know a little now, 
and then I can learn something. I too will be edu¬ 
cated. ” 

The young man let his eyes rest on her with' an 
unfathomable expression. 

“You are very quick, Araceli, and you will 
learn rapidly. You shall have one of my books.” 

She smiled her thanks. 

“But tell me, what is your mission? What are 
you going to do? ” 

Under pretext of observing the spectacle, he 
closely scanned all who were near. Then he re¬ 
plied in carefully modulated tones: “ I am to go to 
Gomez with despatches—-no, do not be alarmed,— 
my messages are all verbal—and after I deliver 
them I shall join Marti.” 

“ Ah, ‘ El Maestro 7 ! Let us say a prayer for him. 77 

An ironical expression flitted over the young 
man 7 s features. 

“Us, Araceli? Ho, you say the prayers to¬ 
day. I am here only for appearance 7 sake. If 
there be a God- 77 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


“ Ah, Mother of God, be silent! ” said the girl 
in a hoarse whisper, crossing herself. “ Joaquin, 
it is not safe to speak so here. What if they 
should hear you? Besides, what has happened to 
you? You did not use to talk this way. Do you 
not believe in God and heaven! ” 

“ I believe in the freedom of Cuba, ” he replied 
firmly. “ Liberty is my religion, and I will live 
and die fighting for it.” 

“ ‘ Patria y Libertad, ’ ” murmured the girl. 
“Yes, I too would die for Cuba if need be.” 

They had now reached the plaza. The throng, 
closely packed in the church, overflowed on to the 
steps, out into the plaza and the adjacent streets, 
silent, attentive, devout. The deep solemnity of 
an intensely religious sentiment brooded like an 
actual presence over the hushed, expectant thou¬ 
sands. From within the curiously stained walls of 
the old church there rolled the deep, sonorous 
waves of music, stately, solemn, serene. Then 
one impressive, vibrating interval of silence, while 
the very air seemed to undulate with sound-phan¬ 
toms that pierced the inner senses. Every eye 
was ardently fixed on the church door. In their 
religious exaltation they had reached that peculiar 
psychic climax where the illusion becomes the mir¬ 
acle; and as the doors swung open and the radiant 
figure of the Chirst appeared, borne on a gorgeous 
canopied platform, an overpowering burst of har- 
288 


THE EASTEE OF LA MEECEDES 


mony and the chiming of many bells pealed forth 
the risen Lord. 

The array was a stately one. Priests and fa¬ 
thers in superbly embroidered vestments walked 
solemnly, attended by incense-bearers who flung 
aromatic perfumes from their gold and silver ves¬ 
sels out into the shimmering air, and by a choir of 
boys whose voices of crystalline purity penetrated 
the volume of the orchestra and the incessant 
chiming of the bells like a dominant motif. 

In front walked little Pepita Bencoma, who had 
the honor of impersonating the Christ. She was a 
small, well-formed child, about five years old. Her 
large dark eyes were dilated by the strange, con 
fused emotions that surged in her childish soul— 
awe, inspired by a nebulous idea of the Divine 
tragedy, and vanity caused by the envy of her play¬ 
mates. She had cried at first when her mother had 
told her that she must have her beautiful hair cut, 
but now she was proud of the short, crisp curls 
that clustered about her pretty head. Every de¬ 
tail of the crucifixion was pictured. In the person 
of this unheeding child were represented the agon¬ 
ies of Calvary. The tiny, upraised palms of her 
hands were red with the painted lacerations of the 
cross. Her small bare feet, thrust into sandals, 
showed the marks of the nails. A simulated crown 
of thorns was pressed into her temples, and blood¬ 
stains trickled over her forehead, wrists, and ankles. 

284 


r» 



In front walked little Pepita Bencoma. 



















































































































THE EASTER, OF LA MERCEDES 


She wore but a single garment—a short, coarse 
brown skirt. The upper part of her body was bare, 
and in her side was portrayed the spear-thrust. As 
she walked, her eyes fixed steadily in front of her, 
she remembered that her mother had told her that 
she must not notice any of her friends in the 
throng. 

The great solid silver sepulcher of the church of 
La Mercedes in which the Christ had been interred 
on Good Friday, and from which he had now arisen 
amid this joyous and triumphant clangor, was os¬ 
tentatiously borne, a symbol of death cheated of 
its prey. The child-angels followed, their white 
and spotless garments fair in the golden glamor of 
light, and their piping voices helping to swell the 
tide of music, while over all the unceasing chi¬ 
ming of the bells made a heavy, rhythmic harmony. 
The great multitude pressed in closely. Dark eyes 
glowed under the mantilla, and there was a riot of 
color and beauty fit for a carnival. Each member 
of the procession carried a lighted candle, and 
many bore palm-leaves or garlands of flowers. 

The music swelled louder as the procession swept 
on toward La Mercedes, gorgeous in pomp and 
pegeantry, effulgent and imposing, a spectacle of 
military and ecclesiastical power in a country even 
at that moment deep in the throes of rebellion 
against both church and state. Onward proceeded 
the cavalcade to the plaza of La Mercedes. Win- 
285 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


dows of houses were open, and in many appeared 
palms, flowers, and plants, or images of Christ or 
the Virgin. As the procession turned at last toward 
the great open square of the church for the final 
ceremonies, the culmination of the spectacular 
effects was most impressive. Borne high in air, 
Mary, the divine mother, came forth from the 
church to greet her risen Son. She was crowned 
with a golden halo, and her garments of pure white 
glistened in the sunlight with gold and silver and 
precious gems that adorned her person and made 
her a dazzling figure. The music that now 
pealed forth rolled throughout the city and far be¬ 
yond its confines. The two figures of the Christ 
and our Lady of Many Sorrows were carried side 
by side into the great sanctuary, and there seated 
on two thrones, that of the Virgin being of solid 
silver. 

The deep-toned organ in the loft took up the 
theme in sonorous tones, and the choir burst into 
an anthem of stately beauty. The eager throng 
wedged itself within the church and gazed entranced 
at the scene. The central altar of ornate solid sil¬ 
ver, banked with a profusion of flowers, glowed 
with the light of innumerable candles, their points 
of flame illuminating the figures of a host of saints 
disposed in the niches. The priests ascended the 
steps in solemn array, and as the celebration of the 
high mass began, a great awe settled upon the peo- 
286 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


pie, which deepened as the service progressed with 
the mingled perfumes of the flowers and the odor 
of the incense, the misty figures of the child-angels 
and the acolytes seen cloudily through the wreaths 
of blue smoke ascending from the swinging censers, 
the chanting, the intoned prayers, the palpitating 
waves that surged through the church, until an 
effect sinister and unreal was created in the mind 
of a spectator not deluded with its pomp. 

Araceli followed the services with a devout in¬ 
tensity, but Agramonte made but a perfunctory 
show of devotion. His face was impassive. It 
was impossible to imagine what might be passing 
in his mind. 

At last the long and intricate service was con¬ 
cluded. The audience began to disperse slowly, 
being impeded by the many outside who had not 
been able to obtain entrance, but who had patiently 
waited throughout the services. 

Slowly carried along in the crush, Araceli and 
Joaquin reached the door. As they emerged and 
viewed the throng from the top of the high flight 
of steps forming the entrance to the edifice, Joa¬ 
quin’s quick eye discerned at the foot of the steps 
to the left the signal that meant life or death to 
him. Pushing through the crowd was a Spanish 
officer accompanied by four soldiers. Realizing 
that in a moment more he would be under arrest 
and his fate in all probability sealed, Joaquin 
287 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


instantly turned to the right and forcibly made his 
way. Altho not one person in ten could see 
the soldiers from that side of the church, an intui¬ 
tive understanding flashed like a magnetic wave 
through the hearts of all. Agramonte quickly 
gained the right of the church, where not more 
than fifty feet away his servant stood waiting with 
his horse. 

The watchful eyes of the Spanish officer caught 
the movement, and ordering two of his men to fol¬ 
low him, they roughly pushed aside the now-terri¬ 
fied people with their rifles. The three rushed up 
the steps while the other two attempted to reach 
the right side of the plaza through the crowd. As 
the officer gained the top of the flight and caught 
sight of Agramonte, he ordered his men to fire at 
him over the heads of the throng. As they raised 
their rifles, a shriek pierced the air, and Araceli, 
throwing up both arms wildly, rushed from be¬ 
hind and pushed the rifles upward. With an oath 
the officer seized the girl and flung her back into 
the church. Again the shots rang out, but Agra¬ 
monte had swung himself into the saddle, and was 
now in front of the hotel Oriental; where, as he 
was turning into the Calle Santa Ana, the soldiers 
fired again, this time wounding him. 

Riding like the wind out the Santa Ana road 
until near the bridge, he spied a horse standing 
under a mango-tree. Knowing that it was of vital 
288 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


importance to start his pursuers on the wrong trail, 
he cut the hitching-strap, and lashing the horse fu¬ 
riously, drove him over the bridge in a cloud of 
dust, while he turned sharply to the left and down 
a narrow side street, eventually taking a road that 
led toward Najassa, to the southeast. Not until 
the hot and enraged soldiery came up with the 
riderless horse near the hospital of San Lazaro did 
they realize that their prey had escaped. 

Inside the church, Araceli, cared for by her 
aunt and by many friendly hands, revived from 
the unconsciousness that had drowned her senses. 

With the smoldering hatred of Spain and her 
despotism fanned into a fiercer and yet more rebel¬ 
lious flame, the populace hurried to their homes. 

Within the deserted church the Christ and the 
Virgin sat alone, serene and divine amid their 
fragrant offerings. 

CHAPTER II. 

“ Miguel, we are almost there now ? ” 

“Yes, Araceli.” 

The girl shivered a little in the gibbous moon¬ 
light. A cold, unearthly light lay over the land¬ 
scape, and the fringe of palms in the distance 
loomed against the horizon like specters through 
the thick white mist that curled up from the earth. 
Their horses’ hoofs echoed on the ground and oc- 
19 289 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 

casionally swished in the high, wet grass. Silence 
fell between the two again, and they rode without 
speaking, each wrapped in somber thoughts. Pres¬ 
ently the girl spoke again. 

“ Miguel! ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Will they be expecting us? ” 

“No, I scarcely think so; but Joaquin will not 
be surprised to have me join him.” 

The girl turned sharply in her saddle. 

“Join him, Miguel! ” 

“ My dear sister, you know I would go to the 
woods sooner or later, and you know Joaquin is 
my dearest friend. We will go together.” 

“ Then you will not go back with me? ” 

“You had better stay with aunt Dolores a 
while.” 

As he spoke they emerged from a shaded road 
into the open portrero, and not far in front of them 
lay the beautiful country home of the Sanchez at 
Yista Ermosa, located back from the road under 
the shade of marmacillos at the end of a long ave¬ 
nue of palms. 

As they approached the house it was evident 
that even at midnight there was an unusual activ¬ 
ity. Lights showed, and figures were moving 
about. 

“Quien va?” (“ Who goes?”) came the impera¬ 
tive demand, as Miguel and Araceli turned their 
290 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


horses into the palm avenue, and the waning 
moonlight glinted along the barrel of a rifle in 
front of them. 

“ Agramonte, ” responded Miguel promptly. 
“This is my sister, Carlos. Is Joaquin badly 
hurt? ” 

“Ho, senor,” said the sentry, saluting. 

“There are thirty of us to go with him now.” 

“ Good!” 

“ Ah, Miguel! ” cried a dozen voices, as they 
reined up at the open sala. “Welcome! Buenos 
dias, senorita.” 

“ Araceli, ” said a well-known voice, “ you here! 
Let me help you. You must be tired.” 

Five leagues of hard riding in the saddle under 
an intense mental tension had weakened the girl, 
and she trembled as Joaquin assisted her from her 
horse. 

“ No, I am not tired. You, Joaquin, your wound 
—is it a severe one? ” 

“No; a mere scratch in my arm and shoulder, 
and the left at that. I’m in luck. How is it that 
you have come out here, Araceli,—to see Miguel 
off?” 

She was sitting in the nearest hammock, and the 
light of a lamp fell squarely on her face. As he 
spoke, she raised her eyes to his, and in the inten¬ 
sity of that glance the full revelation of the truth 
dawned upon him. The discovery was like a 
291 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


shock to his gentle, chivalrous nature. A wave of 
something like self-reproach ran over him. Had 
they not been perhaps something more than friends 
before he had left the island? 

“You are faint from fatigue,” he said gently. 
“ Stay here and I will get you a cup of coffee.” 

When he returned he found her pale as ivory, 
but calm and self-possessed. By the light of 
lamps and candles the scene of hurried activity fa¬ 
miliar to the early days of the revolution went bus¬ 
ily forward. Rifles, saddles, blankets, harness— 
all the miscellaneous paraphernalia of the little in¬ 
surgent band lay scattered around, while the men 
pushed their preparations for departure with vigi¬ 
lant.haste. Out in la cocina the women of the 
household busied themselves about large kettles 
swinging over glowing beds of fire, and the odor of 
fragrant coffee filled the air. Every one was en¬ 
gaged in some office. Even the children were up, 
and with childish curiosity were deep in the enjoy¬ 
ment of the scene, the import of which they failed 
to realize. 

“ Araceli,” said Joaquin kindly, and with a deep 
inward emotion, “ I have heard what you did this 
morning. I know that I owe my escape to you.” 

“No, it is nothing,” said the girl in a suppressed 
voice. 

“Yes, it is more than nothing. Just now it 
means everything to me. I shall never forget it.” 

292 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


“ You need not remember it, ” replied Araceli, in 
a tone so stifled that Joaquin could scarcely catch 
the words. 

“Need not remember it, Araceli! Why, what 
do you mean! We have been friends ever since we 
were children together, and I have thought more of 

you than of—of-” The impulse which had 

carried him thus far failed him. He dared not 
finish it. 

“Than of any other girl, Joaquin?” 

The words escaped from white and motionless 
lips. Her eyes blazed in an ashen face, but her 
manner was strangely quiet. The issue which he 
would so gladly have avoided suddenly confronted 
him, and every impulse of his nature shrank from 
it. His averted eyes stared hard at the ceiling. 

“Joaquin, look at me.” 

After a painful interval their eyes met in that 
revealing and illuminating gaze that defies deceit. 
In that moment she knew the truth which she had 
fought against believing; yet, even as the blow 
fell, her strength returned. 

“ It is too late, ” she said, with a strange smile. 
“Very well, it is fate.” 

“Araceli,” began Joaquin appealingly. 

She waved him aside with a little imperious ges¬ 
ture he remembered, and, turning in the hammock, 
she looked far out into the night and spoke slowly, 
as tho in a dream: 


293 



THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


“Ah, it is no matter! I knew how it would be. 
You have been four years in the United States and 
you have met their women. They are not ignorant 
like us, and-” 

“ Araceli! ” 

“ And they are free—free to learn the thousand 
and one graces of the intellect which give them 
such a charm, such an advantage over us. Ah, 
Dios mio, why did I have to be a Cuban woman! ” 

Her voice was anguished. Her purplish black 
hair lay in heavy, damp masses about her brow. 

“Araceli, listen; there are no better or more 
beautiful women in the world than the Cuban 
women. God knows I honor and revere them. I 
think too much of you to cause you one pang if I 
could help it.” 

“Ah, no, no, no! I do not blame you. It is 
not your fault.” 

“ Heaven knows not intentionally. I beg of you 
to try to replace me with some one who-” 

“ Ah, could you now replace her—that other! ” 

“ Why in the name of all that is just can we not 
control these things?” cried Joaquin. 

“ They are beyond our power; they come and go 
like lightning, and it is done.” 

“Araceli, you are a brave girl.” 

“Ho, not brave. Perhaps I am proud.” 

“ Proud! It is I who am proud of you. Listen, 
Araceli. At dawn I go to the woods, and I shall 
294 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


stay there until Cuba is free or until I fall. We 
do not know whether we shall ever meet again. 
For the sake of our old frienship, for the sake of 
Cuba, let us part friends.” 

“ For the sake of our old friendship? It is dead. 
For the sake of Cuba? Who knows what her fate 
may be! For these—no; but for your sake, Joa¬ 
quin, for your sake—yes.” 

He felt shaken to the heart. 

Leaning a little forward, he touched her hand 
unobserved. “ God bless you! ” he whispered. 


The night wore slowly away. In the dense 
darkness that precedes the dawn all was at length 
quiet save for the subdued voices of Miguel and 
Joaquin, who had talked all night with that com¬ 
panionship of men in arms who know they are 
comrades to the death. 

A solitary candle flickered feebly, and by its 
uncertain beam could be seen the forms of the men: 
some in their hammocks, some on the floor; all 
fully dressed, and each with his rifle near. 

“It is time we prepared for the start,” said 
Joaquin. “You had better call Jose and have 
him set about saddling the horses.” 

The words had scarcely left his lips when a 
rifle-shot rang out. In an instant every man 
leaped to his feet. From within came the terrified 
295 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


exclamations of the women and the shrill cries of 
the children before they rushed out. 

Ere the full realization of the significance of the 
shot dawned upon them, the second shot echoed 
crisply. 

“ The horses,” cried Joaquin. “Mount! ” 

There was a confusion of voices, a sharp chal¬ 
lenge, and the third warning of the outpost was 
answered by a volley from the enemy which sent a 
hundred Mauser bullets whirring through the grove 
with that peculiar metallic wail which, once heard, 
can never be forgotten. Some of the balls cut 
their way through the house. The volley was in¬ 
stantly replied to by a score of shots from the 
Cubans. 

“Come,” shouted Joaquin, “that will hold them 
in check until we can escape. Come, Miguel! ” 

As he spoke he threw himself into the saddle, 
but at that moment Miguel gave a cry and sank 
to his knees in the doorway leading to the inner 
rooms. Joaquin sprang from his horse and rushed 
to him. There, supported on her brother’s shoul¬ 
der, lay Araceli, white and motionless, blood 
slowly oozing from a small orifice in the bosom of 
her dress. One of the missives of death had found 
its mark. Her eyes were closed, her face peace¬ 
ful. It was impossible for an unpractised eye to 
tell whether she breathed or not. 

“Araceli! Araceli!” cried Miguel. 

296 


THE EASTER OF LA MERCEDES 


They bent over her. 

She opened her eyes and looked vaguely upward. 

“ Where—are—you?—I—can—not—see-” 

Shaking with emotion, Joaquin slipped his arm 
under her head. 

“ Araceli, I am here. Speak to me! ” 

“ Ah, —Joaquin—Miguel — good-by. It—is— 

better—so. Kiss me.” 

Her head fell back. The agonized women burst 
into convulsive sobbing. 

“ Mother of God! ” cried Carlos, breaking into 
the little group, “ fly instantly! The Spanish 
column is almost here.” 

“Come, Joaquin,” said Miguel, “she is dead. 
The Spanish regulars will not molest women and 
children. Let us escape to avenge her.” 

Joaquin hesitated a second, with his eyes fas¬ 
tened on the face of the dead girl—his playmate 
and child-sweetheart in days gone by. She had 
lost her life in coming to see him. She would have 
given it gladly to save him, could she have done 
so. Would the other in the United States, to whom 
he was engaged, do as much! Quien sabe? 

Again came the warning voice of the brother: 
“Joaquin, the Spaniards are coming down the 
lane. Our men have all gone. You have not a 
moment to lose.” 

It was true; the clanking of the enemy’s side- 
arms could already be heard. Hastily tearing the 
297 


THE EASTER OE LA MERCEDES 


little banderilla from his hat, he laid the miniature 
Cuban flag tenderly over the little blue hole in her 
breast, from which a few drops of blood had 
trickled down, pressed his lips to the cold white 
forehead for just an instant, then vaulting into the 
saddle, was away like the wind. 

“You have Agramonte here,” said the Spanish 
colonel, reining up in front of the house. 

“He is gone,” said one of the women. 

“ After him! ” ordered the colonel to his men. 
“Who is that you are nursing?” he asked sus¬ 
piciously, pointing toward the cot where Araceli 
lay. 

The woman kneeling by her raised her grief- 
distorted face defiantly, and flung one arm out with 
a gesture as tho she would strike. 

“Spain’s first victim of the revolution. Look 
at her, if you wish. It is our Easter offering to 
your monarchy.” 

The colonel strode across the room, glanced 
down at the inanimate form, and started back. 
Removing his hat, he said: “Care for her ten¬ 
derly. She is my wife’s sister.” 


298 


Romance of 

a Tin Roof 

and a Fire-Escape 

By 

Myrta L. A vary 


299 



ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF AND 
A FIRE-ESCAPE 


You can live in New York all your life and not 
know your next-door neighbor, is an old proverb 
applicable to all large cities, but presenting only 
that side of the question seen by people who are 
not blessed with adjoining roofs and fire-escapes. 

Mary’s and Dorothy’s windows opened on a 
beautiful tin roof—“almost equal to a summer- 
garden,” they declared in their simple-hearted en¬ 
joyment of this luxury: a very hot one, by way 
of reflection, on a summer’s day; a cool one, after 
sundown, if any wind was blowing. The girls 
were fond of spreading straw mats on the tin, 
piling up a lot of cushions thereon, and stretching 
themselves lazily under the summer starlight until 
they had “ cooled off ” and had forgotten, in looking 
at the pure calm of infinite heights, the stuffy 
downtown office and the everlasting tick of the 
typewriting-machines. 

They were full-blooded Knickerbockers, and had 
“ Yan ” before their names. They were stenog¬ 
raphers also; Mary earned fifteen, Dorothy twelve 
301 



ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF 


dollars a week, the larger portion of which went 
to their landlady, leaving a slim remainder for 
clothes and car-fare. Somehow, they always man¬ 
aged to look trim. They were handy with needles 
and renovating implements; and after coming from 
their work, usually put in an hour or two of their 
evenings in repairing wardrobes. 

“I don’t know what would become of us if it 
wasn’t for the roof,” said Dorothy, who, like 
Trilby, had a fancy for light laundry-work, evi¬ 
dence of which was usually fluttering from the line 
on the roof—especially on the Sabbath, which was 
a great wash-day. 

“How people who haven’t a roof clean their 
wheels, I don’t know,” commented Mary, strug¬ 
gling with her own at that particular minute. 

“And how do they dry their heads?” mused 
Dorothy. 

Head-washing and drying their long, unbound 
tresses in the sun was another Sunday occupation. 
Moreover, they did a lot of sewing on that roof 
Sundays. Let those who have never needed to 
practise Sabbath industries forbear to criticize. 
And let not the uninformed think Mary and Doro¬ 
thy isolated cases of depravity. Their conduct is 
the rule, and not the exception in New York city, 
where two thirds of the great army of female 
stenographers spend their Sabbaths in worthy en¬ 
deavor that they may present a tidy appearance 
302 


AND A FIKE-ESCAPE 


during the week. They have no money to pay for 
their sewing, they have no other time in which to 
do their sewing; they must be neat when they go 
to work or they can not keep their work. 

Mary and Dorothy squeezed a religious service 
into every Sabbath. They were regular attendants 
on an old aristocratic downtown church, in whose 
graveyard their great-great-grandfather, one of 
New Amsterdam’s greatest and richest citizens in 
his day, was quietly sleeping in honorable sepulture, 
while his pretty, gentle great-great-granddaughters 
were struggling to make their daily bread and the 
modest gowns in which they tripped past his tomb 
into the old church, to whose prosperity his wealth 
and devotion had contributed, and into whose cof¬ 
fers their pennies dropped faithfully every Sun¬ 
day. In this church worshiped with them those 
who would have recognized the bond of blood and 
have advanced their interests, had it ever occurred 
to the young women to make their existence and 
their poverty known. 

What with churchgoing, sewing, washing, iron¬ 
ing, wheel-cleaning, et cetera, Sunday was a busy 
day. “It would kill us,” they told each other, 
“but for the roof. We are not grateful enough for 
such a blessing. How do those poor girls live who 
have to do all their work in one room? ” 

“How fortunate,” they reiterated a thousand 
times, “ that that dear good tree stands in just the 
303 


ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF 


right place to preserve our privacy on the one side; 
and that we are flanked on the other with a piano 
factory which no one inhabits Sundays; and that 
nobody but women ever take the fourth-floor rooms 
next door! ” 

They were to lose the last cause for congratula¬ 
tion. 


One Sunday at high noon, Dorothy was hanging 
her stockings on the line. 

A gentleman stepped out on the fire-escape next 
door. 

Dorothy’s sense of embarrassment was mixed 
with a feeling that she ought to call a policeman 
and have a stop put to this invasion of private 
rights. 

The unhappy man got such a stare that he ex¬ 
claimed hastily, “Oh, I beg your pardon!” and 
stumbled back into his window. 

“Polly,” said Dorothy, sticking her head into 
her own window, “it’s too bad for anything! A 
man’s taken the room next door! ” 

“ What’s he like? ” asked Polly. 


For several days after Dorothy’s stare scared 
him indoors, the man did not dare put his head out 
of his window—that is, when they were around. 
Also he kept his blinds half drawn. 

304 


AND A FIRE-ESCAPE 


“ He must die of the heat in there, ” said Doro¬ 
thy, as if divided between humane impulses and 
the desire that he should. 

He seemed to keep pretty well posted as to their 
movements. After a certain Sunday morning 
when, in the exuberance of their spirits over the 
event, they made such noisy preparation for a sail 
that everybody in earshot was obliged to be aware 
of the contemplated excursion, they returned quiet 
and subdued, for the Long Branch boat had left 
the dock before they reached it. Mary stretched 
herself on the sofa for a good cry, and Dorothy 
sought consolation in hanging a bowl-full of stock¬ 
ings out to dry. 

While she was thus occupied the shutter across 
the way opened, and her neighbor stepped forth, 
a lot of wet clothes on his arm. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon! ” he exclaimed, meet¬ 
ing the indignant light of Dorothy’s blazing eyes. 
And straightway stumbled back into his den. 

“Oh,” thought Dorothy, “ what have I done! ” 

She reached inside her window for an alpenstock 
(brought from the Catskills last summer and doing 
duty now as a mural decoration), and tapped her 
neighbor’s casement with it. 

He put his head out doubtfully. He had very 
respectful—and very beautiful—eyes. 

“I—I beg your pardon,” stammered Dorothy, 
“but—but—they won’t dry white indoors.” 

20 305 


ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF 


“Oh, it’s of no consequence! ” he said, blushing 
to the roots of his hair. “ The washerwoman will 
get them to-morrow anyway. I just didn’t know 
what to do with myself. I didn’t know anybody 
was around.” 

“I—I’ll lend you some clothes-pins,” faltered 
Dorothy. Then feeling that she had done her best 
to make the man welcome to his own fire-escape, she 
retreated indoors to tell her troubles to Mary, who 
took delight in what had happened, and hoped that 
the man next door would give up his room because 
of the manifold disadvantages of the situation. 

He played the mandolin, and played it well. 

Sometimes, when they stepped on to the roof, 
they found him on his fire-escape, playing softly. 
He would stop instantly, and beat a hasty retreat. 

They had begun to like him somehow, and to 
feel sorry for him. He seemed to be so lonely; 
like themselves, so poor; and he was so self-effa¬ 
cing in order that their free use of their roof might 
be uninterrupted. 

One night, after their appearance had driven 
him to voluntary imprisonment behind his shutters, 
Mary with her guitar and Dorothy with her banjo 
took up the broken melody. Presently his man¬ 
dolin began to answer, timidly, a note now and 
then. 


306 


AND A FIRE-ESCAPE 


He no longer took flight when they appeared. 

Unless very serious laundry operations were go¬ 
ing forward. 

Indeed, one Sunday Mary looked out of the 
window to behold him, after hanging out his own 
wash, seated on the fire-escape playing the man¬ 
dolin to Dorothy while she hung out her stock¬ 
ings. Various neighborly interchanges of soaps 
and washing-sodas marked each week’s intercourse. 

“Hardly good form,” mused Mary. “But it 
isn’t good form to be at all, if you’ve got to be 
poor.” 

Almost every evening found the trio repeating 
joint and sweet discourses on mandolin, banjo, 
and guitar. He had a good voice, and the three 
dropped into the way of singing all the jolly, pop¬ 
ular new choruses together. 

Bicycles constituted another bond of union. 

It began by his stepping over from his fire-escape 
and taking the job of cleaning her wheel off Mary’s 
hands one day. After that, he cleaned all the 
wheels—his own included—on the roof. 

Of course they got to riding together. He was 
a blessing to them in this respect, for there were 
rides they had longed to take and had never taken 
because of having no male escort at command. 

They had found out all about him. 

He was a Southerner, a gentleman by birth and 
breeding; and he was an art student, trying to 
307 


ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF 


make his way by illustrating magazines. Incident¬ 
ally he owned several cameras, and his friends 
reveled in having their pictures taken—in ham¬ 
mock and off hammock, on wheels and off 
wheels. 

“Can I bring my friend?” 

The answer was a foregone conclusion. No, was 
impossible, for behind Jack stood a tall, broad- 
shouldered young fellow, violin in hand. More¬ 
over, Jack didn’t wait for answer. He had come 
to look upon the roof with a sense of proprietor¬ 
ship. His hammock, potted plants, and other 
properties had taken position over there. He 
swung his long leg over the fire-escape, and his 
friend followed suit. 

That was the first night of the quartet. 

“Do you know whom we have entertained on 
the roof to-night? ” asked Mary, when the guests 
had made their adieus and crossed back to Jack’s 
over the fire-escape. 

“Mr. De-.” 

“Exactly. One of the Four Hundred. Mem¬ 
ber of an old Huguenot family, which has grown 
richer and more exclusive with every decade.” 

“This is becoming dreadful! I wonder whom 
Jack will bring up here next? ” 

“Jack’s ways are inscrutable.” 

“I do hope,” whimpered Dorothy, “he’ll never 
308 



AND A FIRE-ESCAPE 


find out who our grandpa was. It would be such 
a disgrace to grandpa.” 

“ He is bound to. In your wisdom you lent 
grandpa's miniature to Jack for him to use in his 
art work.” 

“Dear me! he must go among all our swell kins¬ 
folk here! I do hope he won't tell them we' re alive!” 

In the room across the way the smoke from 
Dick's cigar was describing pearly cloudlets around 
grandpa's miniature, which Dick was regarding. 

“By Jove!” he was saying, “a Vice-President's 
granddaughters! And living that way! ” 

“Forbear, old fellow! I'm living that way, 
you know.” 

“Oh, you—you're a man! That's different. 
But old Vice-President-'s granddaughters! ” 

“ Well, he wouldn't be ashamed of them.” 

“ Ashamed of them ? By gad, no! ” 

“ Cleverest girls I know. Wonderful how they 
make a gentlewoman's home out of that fourth- 
story den of theirs. Looks like an artist's studio 
inside.” 

“How did they come to such straits?” 

“Always been in them, I reckon.” 

“ Then how the deuce did they pick up their ac¬ 
complishments ? When I took Mary over by the 
chimney, because I thought you wanted a word 
with that little ‘Dot'-” 


309 




ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF 


“ How good of you—so disinterested! ” 

“I’m always good—we dropped into French 
over your potted plants. She talks French like a 
Parisian.” 

“Mother was one. Father belonged to the 
American legation in Paris, married a French¬ 
woman—a singer— mesalliance , you see. Died 
soon after his return to Staten Island—after losing 
all his money in Wall street. His wife, never too 
cordially received—tho she was a splendid woman 
— shrank into herself; educated her daughters 
herself—and died, just as they were beginning to 
be useful.” 

“These girls,” said the young man, speaking 
gravely, “ have kindred here who would help them 
if their plight were known-” 

“ It will never be known.” 

Art had brought Jack and Dick together. The 

friendship begun before their easels in C-’s 

studio was strengthened by musical bonds; they 
drifted into the same glee-club; into the same 
wheeling club. Dick had money to burn, Jack 
had none. Dick lived in a Murrav-Hill palace, 
and made Jack welcome to it; and Jack, a South¬ 
ern thoroughbred of the purest strain, became it 
as a fine jewel a handsome setting; but he preferred 
his “ attic ” and the roof to palace and drawing¬ 
room. And since Dick was overfond of Jack, and 
310 




AXD A FIRE-ESCAPE 


Jack wouldn’t come to Dick, Dick went to Jack, 
and presently became a great frequenter of the roof. 

His smart friends began to wonder what had 
become of him, and were scandalized to discover 
that he had taken up with typewriter girls—styl¬ 
ish, pretty-looking girls, but typewriter girls, for 
all that, and girls who rode wheels on Sunday. 

By this time Dick was so deliriously in love 
that he did not care what became of him. Ah! 
those long, beautiful rides under soft summer 
moons, up Riverside drive, to Yonkers, to Fort 
Lee, over the bridge to Brooklyn, and along the 
cycle-path to Coney — delightful, disreputable 
Coney, where they checked the wheels, and stolled 
out on the beach, and stretched themselves full 
length on the sands, and looked up at the stars or 
out on the ocean to the lights of passing ships; and 
sang snatches of songs, and jabbered nonsense; 
and ate sandwiches and hot tamales, and drank 
sarsaparilla, root-beer, and other abominations. 
“ Sometimes, ” as Dorothy described these times 
years after in her Murray Hill home, “ we fell so 
low that we actually drank clam-chowder! ” 

The four went bathing Saturday afternoons at 
Coney—than which nothing could be more per¬ 
fectly dreadful, for everybody that’s nobody 
washes himself at Coney Saturday afternoons, and 
nobody that’s anybody ever goes there at all. 

Dick proposed Manhattan Beach. 

311 


ROMANCE OF A TIN ROOF 


“Oh, no!” said Mary. “We like Coney— 
Coney’s so nice and common.” 

“Besides,” said Dorothy, “your fine friends 
might catch you with us. And you’d want to in¬ 
troduce us, and they wouldn’t want you to; and we 
shouldn’t enjoy that.” 

There were some roof improvements after Dick’s 
admittance. Rainy weather had been a trial to 
the trio. 

“Oh, I wish that the weather wouldn't rain ! 

Oh, I wish that the weather wouldn’t rain ! 

Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, on the window-pane, 

Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, goes my heart's refrain ! 

Por my true love I never can see, 

(For our true loves we never can see) 

As long as the weather will rain ! 

As long as the weather will rain! ” 

Dreadful dirges like this, with mandolin ac¬ 
companiment on one side the brick wall and banjo 
and guitar on the other, afflicted neighborhood ears 
until skies cleared. 

The addition which made the trio a quartet was 
unaccustomed to having his will crossed by small 
matters, and he was not going to let a little thing 
like rain work division between him and Mary. 
One night the girls returned from work, and stuck 
their heads out of the window, and behold! there 
was a wonderful awning-tent on the roof. 

Sad times came to the roof people. 

312 


AND A FIRE-ESCAPE 


Jack had fever. Dick came and nursed him 
night and day; the girls crawled back and forth 
across the fire-escape, bearing bowls of gruel and 
beef-tea and little cups of jelly. When the fever 
was at its worst they took it turn about with Dick, 
and sat up all night too. Once they feared they 
must send him to the hospital, tho he rebelled 
against it with all his feeble might. Fortunately 
the fever was high and short. 

With their own labors, the awful hot weather, 
their cramped quarters, and the care of Jack, the 
girls were ready to collapse when Jack began to 
convalesce. Fortunately September and their two 
weeks’ vacation were at hand. Then the most 
delightful thing in life happened. Dick took them 
all off in his yacht. The quartet, with commend¬ 
able regard for conventionalities, drummed up a 
couple of efficient but inoffensive chaperones, one 
of whom was Dick’s aunt—a kind body, ready to 
give Dick the moon if he cried for it. 

Would there ever be anything so beautiful in 
life as that two-weeks’ cruise in Dick’s yacht? 
Yet Dorothy came back with an ache in her heart. 
Mary, later met by Dick, was wooed and won, 
while here was Jack, who must know—how could 
he help when she had shown it so plainly to every¬ 
body when they thought he would die of the fever? 
—and who had never spoken a word of serious 
purpose. Perhaps poverty held him back—yet he 
313 


KOMANCE OF A TIN EOOF 


might tell her so. A maiden’s pride was worth 
something. Artists were light o’ love—had she 
not heard that? 

The moon looked down on the roof, and on Doro¬ 
thy and Jack—studying astronomy perhaps. Dick 
had taken Mary to see his mother. 

A mandolin and a banjo lay idle on a pile of 
cushions. 

Jack was bubbling over with spirits. Why not? 
Artists are light o’ love. His drawings were be¬ 
coming all the rage in magazine circles, $50 orders 
were snowing him under, and a great publishing 
house was about to send him abroad—indeed, he 
thought he might go on the same ship that took 
Dick and Mary on their bridal tour. Dick and 
Mary had besought her to accompany them—but 
no, she would not. What would become of her? 
The winter was coming; she would be shut in 
her lonely room; no roof garden, no anything. 
Poor Dorothy, try as she would, could not look in 
high feather. 

“What’s the matter, Dot? Thought you’d be 
glad of my luck. What you so glum about? ” 

“It’s abominably hot,” she yawned; “and I’m 
tired and sleepy too, Jack. I wish you’d go 
home.” 

“You’re fibbing”—tenderly. “It’s not the 

weather. Grieving about Mary, Dot? ” 

314 


AND A FIRE-ESCAPE 


“ Oli, yes ”—carelessly—“ about you all. With 
Mary and Dick married, and you gone, it will be 
‘ like a banquet-hall deserted, whose lights are 
fled ’-” 

“ Oh! you can count upon the moon, Dot. The 
moon shines in winter, you know.” 

“ Don’t be frivolous, Jack, about the moon. The 
moon’s a serious matter. Really, I hate frivolity 
about the moon. Oh”—breaking down—“it’s 
going to be dreadful—till Mary comes back.” 

“Always Mary.” 

“Well, isn’t Mary my sister? And isn’t an 
awful thing about to happen to her? Think of 
having to associate with the same man all your life. 
Seriously, I’m awful glad of her and Dick’s hap¬ 
piness, but”—a sob—“it’s going to be dreadful up 
here by myself. The quartet’s been so jolly.” 

“ The quartet? Dot, are you grieving just about 
the quartet—and Mary? Not a little bit about me 
—by myself? And I was such a happy poor devil 
when I came up here to-night. Now, I don’t care 
about my good luck! Dot, I thought you’d be 
glad when I told you about my good luck—I 
thought you would. I thought you’d be willing 
to go with me. I can’t give you yachts and a 
Fifth-avenue home, but—I thought you’d be glad 
—and be my little wife. And now you’re too 
cross about Mary and Dick to care. Oh, Dot, you 
do! you do! My darling! ” 

315 






















































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